


Setting Up Shop

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic and diabolical plots, Educating the rookies, Established Relationship, Happiness over duty, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's not an Arrangement, Life Lessons, M/M, Married Couple, Moving In Together, Parallels, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25126249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: After returning home from their honeymoon, Crowley proposes something Aziraphale can’t refuse. Heaven and Hell also take note, however.Departures, arrivals and the cyclical nature of things; it’s all par for the course on Earth.Part of a series; this one more or less directly follows Earthly Matrimony, but there are also elements from other stories. I’ll give some background as things pop up, but for the full picture I recommend you check those out too ^^Tags will update as things move along.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406188
Comments: 59
Kudos: 78





	1. Just Married

A strange light bloomed over Berkeley Square, one warm night in June.

It was there for only a blink of an eye, and gone again before any Mayfair residents and passers-through could really react – insofar as they would’ve reacted at all to just another instance of light pollution, even though it had flashed a few colours unknown to Earth’s spectrum and been emitted by a very cinematic spacecraft hovering just over the rooftops. It was there for just the blink of an eye, but would only end up in a few disreputable papers no one would really actually blink at.

People certainly didn’t blink at the two men, or man-shaped beings, that’d appeared under the dark trees of the square when the light had faded again. They seemed perfectly ordinary, if a little eccentric. They also appeared to be readjusting to the effects of Earthly gravity.

One of them, white-blond and dressed in a tan coat, smiled up at the sky, a hand raised in farewell at the craft speeding away towards the stars. “How lovely of them to drop us off here,” he beamed. “Such a charming bunch.”

“Told you there was life around Alpha Centauri,” smirked the other, dressed all in black and sporting sunglasses at night. “Though I’m still not sure whether they evolved, or they were another of God’s practical jokes…”

“I doubt even you suspected they were quite that advanced, though. And so hospitable!”

“Nothing but the best for our honeymoon,” Crowley aimed to nonchalantly remark, but the way his smile went hopelessly soft betrayed he’d never be able to be nonchalant about this, especially not this soon after their springtime wedding.

Aziraphale beheld him as though seeing him for the first time. It wasn’t just his smile; everything about the demon seemed just a little softer. It probably had something to do with him no longer keeping such a rigid hold on his hair, slowly letting it grow the way a human’s might. It was starting to curl at the ends and around his ears, sporting a copper gleam under the lamplight and looking terribly, unfairly inviting. Aziraphale reached out and gently cupped his husband’s cheek, fingers curling into that fiery hair. Crowley melted into the kiss, and it was almost like their very first, under these very trees one summer night almost two years ago.

They remained very close afterwards, unwilling to let go. “Now that we’re married,” Crowley murmured, “it feels almost wrong to let you go back to that sofa of yours. Or me to that flat where I barely even live at all.”

“Well, I’d assumed we’d go to one of either together tonight, darling.”

“That’s… not entirely what I mean.”

Aziraphale looked up at him through pale lashes. “What are you suggesting?”

Crowley looked back, his eyes fully yellow but bolder than they’d ever been. “Let’s properly move in together, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley immediately jolted, and started backpedaling. “Uh, I don’t – ‘course I don’t expect you to answer that right away – I know how you value your privacy and I can be a bit, well –”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, eyes still wide but also shining with joy and more than a hint of tears, “I’d love that.”

“Y – uh, you – you would?”

“ _Yes,_ ” the angel beamed. “I’d – oh, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined it! A home together, a mixture of our things, our very lives…” He was clearly torn between hugging Crowley closer and freeing his hands into animated gestures, fumbling halfway between their bodies instead. “I’ve adored that shop for over two hundred years, to be sure, but in the end it was a front for my Heavenly duties, you know, coming into contact with humans and being angelic to them, and the best thing I’ve really done with it is host you – and, well, perhaps those beautiful illuminated sixteenth-century –”

“Angel,” Crowley chuckled, prompting Aziraphale to stop chattering. “…Yes, my dear?”

The demon gave him a look like molten gold, closed his eyes and leant in for a heartfelt kiss, languid and slow, stopping time around them without any need for demonic interventions. It said _you and me, now and always_ ; it said _thank you for giving me everything; let me give you everything, too._ “I love you,” the demon muttered. “Let’s go somewhere new together.”

Aziraphale stammered, needing a few tries to find his tongue again. “Together,” he managed, more stars in his eyes than would ever show in London’s light-polluted skies. “…Crowley… could I, um – could I perhaps persuade you to come over to the shop, tonight?”

“No need to ask.” Crowley slipped their hands together, and they strolled out from under the trees. “Shall I fetch you tea and a slice of wedding cake, perhaps? To celebrate?”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to weaken Crowley’s knees with a look. “Oh, I was thinking something stronger, and something infinitely more delicious to go with it, my dear.”

The demon flushed as red as his hair, straining not to fling out his wings and get to Soho that much faster.

When morning found them, neither of them had had much sleep, and not only for amorous reasons; there’d also been a great deal of talking. The lack of sleep bothered neither of them. In fact, everything they’d been up to had reinvigorated them a great deal more than sleep would ever have been able to.

Crowley left the bookshop with a spring in his step and his thoughts in overdrive, leaving Aziraphale with a lot to think about and a lot to do as well.

“It’s a big step, to be sure,” the angel had mused that night, eyes shining in the cozy dimness as lamplit shadows rested snugly between his countless antique bookcases. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting all jittery over it.” He smiled at the demon resting long legs across his lap, resting his hands on Crowley’s knees in turn. “Then again, there’s no hiding that from you, is there.”

“There’s no rush,” the demon reassured him. “And no particular need for a _lot_ of change, either.”

“I think… I rather think I want things to, though. Change, I mean.” The angel briefly met Crowley’s eyes before uncertainly looking away again. “This city, these people – it’s been absolutely wonderful, and we both have so many lovely memories, but…”

“Getting out of London,” Crowley quietly surmised. He sat up, intently staring at Aziraphale. “Where’d we go?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.” Aziraphale hesitated. “Not any of our old haunts, though. I want to move forward, forge something new.” He still wasn’t looking at Crowley, but his eyes had taken on a brighter glint, a growing hint of certainty, and his hands grew more animated as well. “I want to… connect with the world. Not too many people, but they’d matter all the more.”

“Not like these faceless masses,” Crowley suggested. “The tourists…”

“Oh, don’t get me started on tourists,” Aziraphale fussed. The demon smirked, knowing all too well what’d happen if he did. He leant back again, content to watch and listen to his husband’s tangent.

“There’d simply have to be a garden,” the angel uttered softly, not so much tacking it onto a list of wishes but quietly marveling at the very possibility. He looked over at Crowley. “A garden for the apple tree.” A while ago, their shared influences and efforts had led to a fully grown apple tree sprouting in Crowley’s apartment, flinging roots right through tile and concrete. They’d both come to care for it a great deal, and not even the demon made pretense not to anymore. Crowley immediately nodded. “We’d be spoiling it even more than we are now, but it does deserve a garden.” He shifted his legs, gently nudging the angel. “And you deserve space for all these books.”

Aziraphale looked around as if seeing the shop for the first time. “Oh, I’d – I’d thought maybe –”

“You’d sell them off? Some of them?” Crowley snorted in amusement. “Which ones? Go on, tell me. Which ones’d be the first to go?”

The angel fell silent for the longest time, intermittently opening his mouth and raising a finger as if about to make a very good point, but abstaining and sinking into increasingly troubled thought every time. Crowley’s eyes glittered with mirth. “Right. There will be no selling.”

“You’d let me keep everything?” The wonder in the angel’s voice and expression were so great Crowley touched a hand to his chest in mock affront[1]. “Angel, please, you offend me. Would you have me part with even one of my beloved rapscallious sprouts?”

“Of course not.”

The demon spread his hands with a flourish. “Well there you are, then. We’re getting you a library.”

“A li-” Aziraphale froze, eyes going wide and halo sparking into being around his hair as he lost track of everything but that thought. Crowley snickered. “Well, yeah, that’s what you’d call a private collection no one else would even think of buying or so much as touching, right?” He yelped as his husband surged towards him, wrapping him up in arms and wings and silver-golden light. “Oi, angel –”

“We’re getting you a garden,” Aziraphale managed between kisses, “and a heated greenhouse, and a jungle in every windowsill –”

“– those not reserved as reading nooks –”

“– and a wine cellar and a, a, a whole _village_ of people for you to torment on your demonic days –”

“– and for you to bless around with on your angelic days,” Crowley grinned. “Lots of goodwill, lots of little restaurants where they’ll get to know you.”

“Oh, you fiend, Hell’s really lost their prize tempter…”

“Hmmm.” Crowley smiled up at his overjoyed husband, all but melting into the couch with happiness and adoration himself. “Not too bad yourself, angel…”

They’d lost and picked up their trains of thought a few more times throughout the night, sketching their shared dream and getting an ever clearer picture of it, even as drink eventually blurred it somewhat. And as he left the shop in the morning, Crowley knew exactly what he needed to do.

A countryside village, a spacious but snug place near it. A garden, the delights of Earth all around them. Yes. The demon all but whistled as he made his way over to his Mayfair flat; he knew just the place.

Aziraphale had proposed marriage to him in just such a place. Exactly a thousand years before that, they’d started their Arrangement in that same place, even though there hadn’t yet been a village then. People being people, both groups of their human followers had banded together and founded one on the spot when their demonic leader and angelic protector had bailed on their duties, eleventh-century monks and Viking invaders together being responsible for the present-day South Downs village of Epfield.

Crowley willed the lift up so fast it creaked, then opened his front door with a thought. His houseplants immediately stood at attention, trembling to see him again for the first time since he and Aziraphale had left on their honeymoon. The apple tree, ever fearless, spread slender branches in the morning sunlight. Everything looked as lush and glorious as the day Crowley had left it.

The demon tutted for a moment. He was strict, but not without appreciation. He sauntered over, momentarily suspending his mission to manifest a watering can and take care of his cowering subjects and spoiled crown jewel. “I trust you’ve all been on your best behavior,” he purred, inspecting leaves and stems, sparking mortification with every careful, feather-light touch. “And you’d better continue that trend, because not too long from now you’re going to be seen by Aziraphale every day –” he faltered for a moment, struggling to keep up his fearsome air with _that_ thought in his head, “– and we don’t want to offer him any less than our best, now do we?” The rustling around him intensified, and the demon smirked. “Thought so.” He dispelled the watering can and stalked over to his office, settling on his throne and reaching for the telephone. He could’ve done this by smartphone, but the occasion called for a bit more gravitas, he decided.

“East Hampshire District Council, how can I help you?”

“Good morning, this is Anthony J. Crowley speaking. I’m interested in buying a certain property near the village of Epfield.”

“Hang on, let me patch you through.”

Crowley waited, and bid more people good morning, and explained his intentions a few times as he was bounced around. “Yes, the abandoned cottage near the lake, on the Serpent Trail.” He smirked; when going for an evening stroll there with Aziraphale, he’d already felt like the place belonged to them. “It didn’t look like anyone’s lived there for a while, so I was wondering who exactly to contact over buying the property.”

“I’m afraid the house isn’t registered to any estate agents any longer. It’s scheduled to be demolished shortly, actually. Ownership of the grounds has already passed back to the municipality.”

Crowley bit back a groan. _Bloody complicated nonsense._ He missed the time when one could just stake claim to a spot and severely discourage others from doing the same, before every square inch of soil belonged to some vague tangled-up agency or another – before inevitably remembering he’d been the one to spot and encourage humanity’s petty possessiveness and pedantry himself, starting quite early in their history and continuing until, well, his retirement, and sometimes after if he felt like it. It’d all seemed perfectly sinful at the time. He recalled memos sent to Head Office, and various minor commendations. He failed to bite back his groan this time. _Bang-up job as always, Crowley._ “Well, would there be any way to acquire the property before demolition? I assure you, money is no issue.” He laced his voice with a hint of demonic suggestion, letting the words linger. It took a little more effort across the phone line, but maybe… nothing as dependable as the human vices, after all…

“Good _day,_ sir.” _Click._

Crowley yanked the phone away from his ear and gave it a withering look, then slid down his throne and rolled back his head. “Uggh.” He briefly considered making the considerable effort of cursing all of East Hampshire’s phone network, making sure he’d been the last caller of the day and thus at least making an impression, but then decided that’d be overdoing it. Instead, he let glistening black scales creep up and down his body, and slithered over to drape his coils up and down the branches of the apple tree. He could use a bit of a bask, and some time to think this over. He’d need to step up his game, maybe head over in person…

Plotting was just starting to turn to dozing when the phone rang on his end. With something half hiss, half profanity, Crowley’s coils slipped as he fumbled back into a shape with legs to scramble over to it, and hands to pick it up. “Yeah?”

“Good afternoon, dearest.”

The demon’s expression softened, tension leaving his shoulders. “Hi, angel. What’s the matter?”

“I was wondering if maybe you’d be up for a spot of lunch. Centaurian cuisine was lovely, but I’ve ever so missed Earth’s.” Aziraphale sounded like he needed a distraction. Crowley leapt at the chance to indulge him even more readily than usual. “But of course,” he gallanted. “My chariot and I will be right on over.”

Hearing the angel perk up in a giggle was all worth it. “Thank you, my dear.”

Lunch, dinner and a splendid night later, and Crowley had returned to his throne with renewed determination. He wound the line around a clawed fingertip, running a forked tongue across sharpened teeth. He was prepared this time.

“Good afternoon,” he started in his most honeyed voice. “Anthony J. Crowley speaking.” Anything for his angel. Also, the resistance he’d encountered last time had convinced him he was on the right track; he simply _had_ to get his hands on this cottage now. Now it was personal.

“Are you calling about the house on the Serpent Trail? Sir, I told you –”

“ – that it was most definitely scheduled to be demolished, yes, I know. But hear me out.” Crowley hunched over his desk, gesturing as he talked. “I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. I could personally make it worth your while if you were to put in a good word here and there –”

“Sir, if you are insinuating –”

“– or I could do my part for the town and district as a whole, of course. I can assure you my presence will do nothing but good for the economy.” This was probably true. Between Aziraphale’s fine taste and tipping habits, and Crowley’s penchant for dramatic impulse buys and his habit of giving insurance and construction companies stuff to do, money had a tendency to get moving wherever they went. “Think about it, is all I’m asking.”

“Sir, with all due respect, you are out of line. Good day.”

“ _Wait,_ ” he hissed, and the sharp intake of breath told him that this at least had had the intended demonic effect. “Hear me out,” he repeated, straining to get his influence across. Greed hadn’t worked; alright then, plan B. “I’ve seen the property. It will not be easy to demolish. It’s a dangerous wreck of a thing, unstable for one, and also overgrown, thorns and giant hogweed and loads of… copse, all that. Thorny, poisonous. Take it from me, I know a thing or two about vegetation.” He twirled the line again. “And all the way up the Serpent Trail, it won’t be easy – or at all possible – to get the required machinery to the place. Trust me, it’d save you a lot of effort and paperwork to just sell it off to someone who knows how to handle that devilish spot of land.” Sloth, that usually did the trick…

“I’m sure we’ll manage, sir.”

 _Really?_ Crowley quietly growled to himself; it had to be the unspoiled countryside, didn’t it? Just his luck. Hardworking honest people. Salt of the earth. Alright. He hadn’t wanted to have to do this, but… “If you don’t give me something right now,” he started, speaking carefully and clearly, “I will call up your manager and have her check last week’s tapes before they’re discarded tomorrow. I’m sure mrs. Delling won’t be happy to see and hear what you and mr. Finnegan have been up to in her office, and she certainly won’t be when I hint to her this wasn’t the first time.”

“H-how on Earth did you –”

“My request stands.”

A hefty sigh was heaved. A pause fell. “Alright. You are in luck, sir. I’m being told there are more parties interested in the property, so I do suppose I shall be able to have the demolition postponed, if not cancelled outright.”

“Ever so glad to hear it,” said Crowley, serpentine grin too wide for his face. Other people? Not a problem. He’d deal with them accordingly. “I am going to want more than a postponed demolition, though.”

Another pause, and Crowley, experienced in these matters, picked up on the minute sound of teeth being clenched. Music to his ears. “You’re welcome for a visit and viewing of the property, sir. Let me schedule an appointment.”

“ _Thank you._ See,” Crowley celebrated, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

When he left London, it was as swift and sneaky as befitted his true nature. The drive to Epfield was only an hour for someone driving the speed limit; Crowley, being a demon driving without an angel to marginally slow down for, arrived in exactly nineteen minutes. The Serpent Trail’s underbrush found itself cowering to the sides and making room for the gleaming black Bentley as it rolled up between oak, birch and beech. The trees found themselves hesitant to litter a single leaf onto its roof. Crowley found himself taking even more of a liking to the area.

The cottage was as lovely as he remembered. He’d only seen it by night last time, but by daylight he could see it was overgrown by a jumble of red, white and pink roses, rising from what had once been a considerably sized garden like a tidal wave of thorns and serrated leaves. He chuckled to himself, reminiscing. “Those good old Yorks and Lancasters. One of yours, angel, one of mine?” In truth, as with anything _that_ messy, it’d been completely humanity’s doing, but the colour coding in particular had made for two series of exceptionally well-received reports to Head Office. The end result of it all still occasionally made both of them smile and chuckle into their drinks. As Crowley exited the car, he picked one of the pink roses and stuck it in his lapel before greeting the dark-haired woman waiting for him closer to the cottage. “Morning, ma’am,” he nodded. “Are you the estate agent?”

“An intermediary,” she replied, coming up to shake his hand. “Call me Eliza.”

“Anthony.”

“I’m afraid we can’t go in, Anthony. It’s very unsafe, they didn’t schedule for demolition for nothing.”

Crowley eyed the building, seeing past the idyll of a shared home with Aziraphale. As of now, the cottage sported splintered walls, sagging beams and a less-than-watertight roof – but somehow it still seemed in better shape than he remembered from their first visit. Maybe it was the daylight. “Eh, I’m sure we can spruce it up.” He surreptitiously snapped his fingers behind his back, and splinters and moss retracted even as the roses subtly cowered back. “Are you sure we can’t take a peek? Doesn’t look so bad to me. You _do_ want to sell it, don’t you?”

“Most certainly, but I will be keeping to safety guidelines.” Eliza gave an apologetic smile, and Crowley quietly gnashed his teeth as he returned it. _These people…_ He clearly had a lot of demonic interfering to do here. He decided to look on the bright side; retiring here was going to be _fun._

This was a problem, though. As good a feeling as he had about the place, he didn’t want to get himself and his angel just any old cottage; he had to know what he was getting into. He turned to the house, stroking his chin in thought for a moment – then snapping his fingers. The rustling in the trees froze. The hoverflies in the slanting sunbeams stilled midflight, as did the lark swooping down in pursuit of one of them, beak wide open. Crowley turned back to an unmoving Eliza, giving her a brief albeit redundant salute before walking backwards into the roses.

He quickly found that even while cowering back the best they could, they were still clawing at his trousers and marking up his scaly not-quite-shoes. He let out a quiet growl. “Alright then, you lot, have it your way, let me slip into something a bit more convenient.” This _was_ the Serpent Trail, after all. As he slimmed down and slithered through the undergrowth, he felt strangely at home, and uncharacteristically eager to give the garden an early stamp of approval.

Slipping in through one the almost completely glassless windows, the feeling of homecoming only intensified. He passed his lidless gaze through the shaded room, spotting the fireplace and what must once have been a very cozy living room indeed. A kitchen on the other side, winding stairs with rusty baroque railing leading up…

His further inspection didn’t take any time at all, but was more than thorough nonetheless, to the point where thoroughness turned to lingering, bordering on loitering. By the time he slithered back down, Crowley could see himself and Aziraphale sitting by the fireplace, toasting a fine red and listening to the old classics on the angel’s ancient gramophone. He caught himself getting all sentimental about it. It was settled, he decided as he slid back out the window; he was hellbent on making this work.

Having regained his fingers and snapping them, Eliza briefly started, but Crowley was quick to smooth over the considerable jolt he’d just sent through reality. It’d been for a good cause. “Thank you for showing me this much, madam. You will certainly be hearing from me.”

“Delighted to hear it,” she smiled, shaking his hand. “Although you do have some fierce competition. I’m not supposed to name names or specify numbers, you understand, but…”

“Understood,” Crowley nodded, sauntering back to the Bentley and not taking his competition seriously in the slightest. No mortal upstart would be taking this cottage from him.

A few days, multiple phone calls and almost as many bids later, he was starting to double back on that cocksure attitude.

Money was not an issue for him, nor had it ever been. However, he hadn’t wanted to throw around truly exorbitant sums, at least not out of the gate; he didn’t want to draw too much attention. It was starting to seem like he was going to have to, though. Whatever he bid, he was being matched for it. What was more, it seemed like he was subtly being slandered somehow. “What do you mean the area wouldn’t agree with me?!”

“I’m just saying, sir, a business owner such as yourself –” he’d had to justify himself somehow “– I’m just not sure a village like Epfield would be –”

“I’ll decide that for myself, thank you very much. This is _ridiculous,_ ” Crowley hissed into the receiver, his pupils hair-thin slits awash in yellow. “I’m the one to convince you to sell it in the first place, and now you don’t want to sell to _me?_ ”

“Not just you, sir, as you recall. Demolition was cancelled because of overwhelming shared interest.”

“ _Whose?_ ” He’d have a fine bout of cursing. He didn’t have plans for today. He could feel them tingling at his fingertips already, as raring to go as he was himself.

“I can’t tell you, sir, privacy regulations –”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the other end fell quiet. That did it. No more free will, for just a moment. This took a lot of energy over the phone, and he’d probably pay for it in migraine, but it’d be worth it. He’d make sure of that. “ _Who._ ”

“I haven’t been in contact with him personally, sir.” The clerk’s voice had gone flat and monotone, no trace of personality or resistance remaining. “Just heard about him from my colleague. Seems a friendly if fussy sort, uses outdated terms. The cottage was deemed ‘nifty’ quite a number of times, as I recall.”

Crowley’s eyes had gone wide, his entire posture frozen. Then, when the clerk made to speak again, the demon let out a curse not heard since the heyday of Babylon before slamming the phone down, groaning, dragging a hand across his face, picking back up and dialing another number.

“Good afternoon, A.Z. Fell speaking.”

“Hey. I’m coming over.”

“Begging your pardon?”

Crowley didn’t answer, because Crowley was no longer there; the receiver had dropped from his hand as he’d dissolved into a multitude of inky particles, traveling through the line and arriving at their destination in an instant. He hadn’t even fully materialized in the bookshop before taking hold of a very startled angel’s shoulders, giving a wild grin, and kissing Aziraphale hard on the mouth. “You utter bastard. We’ve got the cottage.”

Brief confusion creased the angel’s brow, but then realization dawned. “You don’t mean – oh, _Crowley_ –”

“Just like old times, eh?”

“ _You_ were the one thwarting me? Oh, I should’ve known!”

“Should’ve known no one else could be such a pain in my ass!” Crowley found himself unable to stop grinning. “No wonder those people were so hard to influence. Right paragons of virtue, they were!”

Aziraphale gave a bashful smile. “I must confess I’ve been quite liberal with my influences, yes. But!” he perked up, beaming, “They decided to let the house stand all on their own, dearest, _that_ at the very least happened the right way.”

Crowley shook his head in exasperated amusement. “I take it you like it, then?”

“Oh, I loved it the moment I set eyes on it that night. It was the only place I could think of.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Your most persistant rival,” Crowley whipped out his smartphone with all the gallantry he could muster, “will be buying it for you.” The demon started dialing the number, but Aziraphale stayed his hand. “No, please, allow me. It’s the least I could do.”

“I might be able to haggle the price a bit better,” Crowley remarked, turning away and out of reach. “Money’s a demon’s area.”

“Money is no issue for either of us. Also, what’s that supposed to mean?” The angel narrowed his eyes playfully. “Veiled commentary on my coin tricks, dear boy?”

“I’d never,” Crowley grinned, dialing on.

“Either way…” Aziraphale tried to finagle the phone from the demon’s hands, ending up touching the screen and accidentally ringing up a bakery in Hambledon, “…I’ll be making the bid.”

Crowley slipped away with a clearly inhuman wriggle. “Come over here and make me.”

“That doesn’t make _any_ sense –”

In the end, after persuading mr. Reeves of the Crumby Bakery (and his wife, who’d pressed in to listen along as she’d seen her husband’s increasingly bewildered expression) to forget all about what they’d gleaned from their increasingly breathless shenanigans, they ended up pressed together rather snugly behind Aziraphale’s desk, practically both making the call, and negotiating a meeting at a Hampshire office where the non-consequential costs would be split down the middle, as they should be. In the end, as the horn was put down and the whole debacle was behind them, they ended up simply beaming at one another in exhilarated disbelief. “We’ve done it, my dear. We’re really… oh, we’re really doing it.” A lesser demon might’ve been incinerated on the spot by the holy light Aziraphale emitted now. “A place of our very own…”

Crowley didn’t seem willing or able to stop grinning as he pulled the angel from the chair, into the shop and into a careless, loose-limbed dance, just taking in their joint happiness. “We’ve gotta celebrate. Night out on the town.”

Aziraphale let himself be spun around, then dipped the demon with a radiant smile. “Oh yes, I rather think so. For soon-to-be old times’ sake.”

“Let’s start with sushi?” Crowley offered.

“And end at that cocktail place you took a liking to.”

“And whatever happens in between, happens,” the demon grinned.

They ended up bouncing all over Soho, finding a different place for every course of their evening-spanning meal and then onwards into the nightlife, as well as ever further into their cups. When they at last found themselves in Chinatown’s intimate Opium cocktail bar on the second floor, its decor all stylish black and red, Crowley no longer really looked cool enough to match the place. Aziraphale wasn’t much better off. “I remember when this place was a brothel,” the angel said ponderously, heavily leaning on the bar. “I mean a walk-up, as they called them. The top floors, just,” he gave an expansive and unsteady gesture, “just like this one.” He gave a wobbly smile into his Urumqui rosewater and honey cocktail. “Lovely girls, they were.”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by one of the staff, smiling as she passed them by. “You can’t possibly remember that, sir, every walk-up in this neighbourhood was closed in the seventies – and I have to say you don’t look a day over forty!”

“Oh, flattery, dear girl,” Aziraphale chuckled. He leaned back comfortably, gaining a dreamy look Crowley knew to mean he was getting lost in memories. The demon gently prodded him. “Never took you for one to frequent such – such essstablishments, angel.”

“Oh, not for _that,_ Heavens no.” The demon had to chuckle at the uncoordinated flapping of Aziraphale’s hands, even though he found his own shoulder bumping the angel’s unbidden and unannounced. “Nonono, just helping out. Minor blessings and such, talking the odd gentleman into rethinking their behaviour. They could use it.”

Crowley gave a hazy smile. “Soho really does ssuit you. Almost hate to take you out of it. Though you’d probably never get the Soho out of the, the angel. Right?”

“I’m leaving of my own accord, dear boy.” The angel turned to face him. “But I s’pose it does. Chose it myself, you know,” he remarked, not without a hint of pride. “Went through a great deal of trouble, too.” He nodded sagely. “Knew Gabriel would let me stay if I put it the, the right way, what with the sinful image and all, even back then.” He paused. “Maybe especially back then. So prudish they were.”

“Oh, and tha’ss saying something,” Crowley chuckled.

“Oh hush.” The angel gave a mischievous grin. “If you _must_ know, I always knew I’d fit right in. Misfit between misfits. I’d rather be one here than…”

“Yeah,” Crowley quietly understood.

“What – what about you and Mayfair, then? Can’t believe I never asked how that happened, but seeing as we’re leaving…”

“Oh, that?” Crowley reached for his glass[2], peering into it for a moment. “Well, it’s nice an’ close to Soho. You’ll recall I settled down there no later than 1801,” he proudly recalled. “Keeping an eye on the oppo- opposiss- the other sside, mind.”

Aziraphale gave him a petulant shoulder nudge. “I _can_ be flattered too much, y’know.”

“Mnn,” Crowley objected, vehemently shaking his head. “Never.”

“I can’t have been the only reason.”

“Well…” Crowley took a sip, savouring the sweetness and pretending not to be burned at the same time, “…there was the _image_ thing, same as you. Fitted with what I was trying to be to ‘em. Flash bastard.” He took another, bigger sip. “Really, I jus’… wanna put my plants in a garden somewhere. Fin’lly push the buggers to their full potential. Have a proper view of the stars.” His eyes softened; Aziraphale could tell even through the glasses, even in this muted, red lighting. “Raise chickens, maybe.”

“Chickens, really?” the angel remarked in amusement. He sat up a little straighter, cleared his head just a bit; he wanted to be a little more sober for this.

“Uh –”

“Don’t worry, judging’s something I gladly leave to Head Office,” the angel smiled. “Still, I’ve never heard you mention this before?”

“Well – have you looked at them, they’re obviously very evil –”

“Dearest.”

“Little avian hellspawn, they are. Thinkin’ of naming a few after my colleagues. They’d probably be more competent at being diabolical.”

“And probably better company, too,” Aziraphale slipped in, innocuously nipping at his cocktail.

“Oh yeah, def’nitely.” Crowley briefly leant his chin in his hand, then sat up rigidly. “Wait –”

“It’s alright, dear,” the angel reminded him. “No more need for… images. It’s just you now. Just me. Just us.”

The demon smiled, not as wryly as he might’ve just a year ago. “Old habits die hard, y’know.”

“I do know.” Aziraphale glanced into his own drink, the sweetness of it still on his tongue. “You know, I’ve been thinking of getting a little more hands-on with the Lord’s creatures myself.”

“Oh?” Now it was Crowley’s turn to pull himself together just a bit, though he immediately moved to take another sip.

“You recall that little stunt you pulled in the Garden, with the bees?”

Crowley almost choked on his drink, but managed to compose himself. “Gh- well, they seemed so _defenseless_ , was all –”

“Oh, _I_ was only startled the first time, but the humans were caught awfully off guard. Eden’s sweet things were to be theirs without issue, you know.”

“I was sent up to cause some trouble! You can’t blame me for following through.”

“Mhmm.” Aziraphale smiled to himself, watching his flustered demon with infinite fondness. After some sputtering, Crowley got back to what he actually wanted to say. “Did do a pretty good job keeping you out of harm’s way afterwards though, didn’t I?” He’d gotten rather good at anticipating the angel getting peckish, rather early on, even Aziraphale had to admit that. “Never had to get honey yourself anymore. Always happened to have some on hand[3].”

“Dearest, it’s not like I have to fear getting stung, or suffer it at all.”

“Well, it’s not like you ever told me that,” Crowley countered. “Not back then, anyway.”

Aziraphale gave the tiniest bastardly smirk. “And it’s not like _all_ of our Arrangement started in 1020, either.” He downed his honeyed drink as daintily as he still could. “Either way, I think I might just take up beekeeping. They’ll be the best-behaved little ladies, to be sure – all the better to pollinate England’s best-behaved, most beautiful garden.”

Crowley smiled as the angel paid their check and stood up, offering a hand to the unsteady demon despite being just as wobbly. He snaked an arm around Aziraphale, not just for balance. “All that… extra space. All that open air.” It’d be as far removed from Downstairs as possible, short of actually going Upstairs. His heart skipped a beat just thinking of it.

“We can feed the ducks at that lake just off the Serpent Trail,” Aziraphale remarked as they half-strolled, half-stumbled through the bustling neon-lit streets. “We’ll be leaving St. James’ Park, but –” 

“Eh, they’ll be prohibiting bird feeding there soon anyways, knowing people. Tourists, I mean, not people.”

“Crowley!”

“What, you’re always thinking it.”

“Well, I suppose.”

They chuckled to themselves, letting Soho’s nightlife wash over them as they realized this would be one of the last times they’d do so; the chatter of throngs of people, the cars roaring past, the loud colours lighting up every storefront, Chinatown’s garlands of lanterns. As they rounded the last corner and came up beside the bookshop, Aziraphale slowed, taking both of Crowley’s hands and halting them both just outside the door. “It will be paradise,” he spoke, eyes shining in a flushed face. “A new Eden.”

Crowley heard what the angel wasn’t saying loud and clear. “We can always come back, you know,” he gentled.

Aziraphale glanced around, then up. “I… find myself unwilling to go inside just yet, dear boy.”

The demon raised a hand. “Say no more.”

A snap, a flurry of feathers, and one angel and one demon found themselves perched on the bookshop’s roof, looking out across the streets, overseeing all of Chinatown, Trafalgar Square with Nelson’s ostentatious Needle, the stately outline of the National Gallery and even catching a glimpse of the river Thames off in the distance, London Eye twinkling like Christmas just beyond.

“That’s a lot of memories,” Crowley murmured over the bustle below them. No one looked up or paid them any mind. Neither of them had bothered to put their wings away.

“Too many, I’ll wager,” Aziraphale smiled. It was the kind of smile he’d worn like his own sort of armour for millennia, and Crowley ached to see it now. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, sobering up almost fully. The occasion called for it. “About this?”

The angel turned to face him, and the most peculiar thing happened right before Crowley’s eyes, likely the only ones capable of seeing and appreciating the subtle change. As Aziraphale looked at him, he smiled for real. A white wing folded around the demon, and the angel leant into him. He suddenly seemed fully sober, too. “Yes, dear boy, I am.”

Crowley wordlessly pulled him closer, stretching out his own wing. Aziraphale closed his eyes, shutting out the city, only feeling the demon’s warmth. “After all this time, to truly come home to you – no amount of memories is worth more than that.”

Crowley rested his head in Aziraphale’s hair, lost in love and feathers, just feeling his heart fill up. “Likewise, angel. Likewise.”

“We’d better get to packing, what’d you say?” the angel remarked to the demon late the next morning, having just finished up their morning tea. Crowley, being an expert even in his much-despised mornings, immediately caught this for what it was.

Of course, the renovation of their cottage would pan out with supernatural ease, but not quite so fast that either of them should start packing already. They had weeks if not months to prepare. But Aziraphale needed time alone with his shop and his books, to prepare not only physically but also mentally for the fact his collection indeed needed to be packed, as did as the centuries-old smorgasbord of his other belongings. The demon obliged, understandingly and affectionately. “’Course, angel. I’ll leave you to it – you know where to find me.”

“Oh! But the Bentley’s still at the flat, isn’t it? Will you take a cab?”

“You know me better than that,” Crowley chuckled. “No, I think I’ll take a walk, in fact. I’ve only got so many of them left.”

Aziraphale pulled him close for a kiss. “Enjoy the day, dearest.”

“You too.”

Crowley was, in his own eyes at least, less sentimental and less attached to things than Aziraphale. He might strictly speaking only _metaphorically_ shed his skin, being a demon[4] and not an actual snake – but he liked to think he had an easier job than most in letting go. He’d had practice, after all.

On the other hand, though, he’d been in and around London for just as long as Aziraphale had. It was a wretched city, partly built on wretched ideals he might’ve taken credit for but actually had very little to do with –but there was beauty in it too. It was one of a kind, really.

As he passed the Ritz, he admitted to himself he was going to miss it. But if he knew his angel at all, Epfield would boast something at least as sophisticated very soon. And just maybe, they should take to cooking for themselves a little more often, too; the sight of vegetables on a cutting board might be an even better way of keeping his plants in line, and he might just get away with that without eliciting Aziraphale’s disapproving tuts, too.

Crowley gave a rare blink behind his sunglasses, then an even rarer smile while alone in public. Instead of dark glee at the thought of his plants, he’d only gotten all warm and fuzzy thinking about doing domestic human things with Aziraphale. He might’ve told himself to knock it off, once upon a time, but now he figured he might as well enjoy something very long in the making indeed.

There was still a spring in his step as he got home, and took the lift up, and unlocked his front door.

It vanished the exact moment he saw the spindly figure standing underneath the apple tree.

He’d warded his apartment against intruders, of course; not just anyone could get in. But this was one of the reasons they planned on moving. Hell had arranged this place for him, and it still belonged to them before it ever belonged to him.

Crowley had frozen in his tracks, his eyes instantly yellowing, his pupils instantly narrowing to razor slits. The demon before him made to approach, opening their mouth to speak, but Crowley was faster. “Ssshut it,” he hissed. “Just – shut up.”

He’d had dealings with this demon twice before. Where Crowley was concerned, it’d been two times too many, even if both he and Aziraphale were both alive and on Earth to tell the tale.

Xaphan, former brewer of hellfire but since punished by their lower downs by being cut off from said hellfire, raised a bony hand. “I don’t like being here any more than you like me being here,” they rasped. “But hear me out –”

“Bugger that,” Crowley snapped, staying right where he was and snatching his smartphone from his pocket. The other end rang thrice before it was picked up. “Angel? Are you alright? I’ve got a friend here.” His voice left no doubt regarding the kind of friend he was talking about.

“Yes, well… I’m afraid I do too, dear boy.” Neither did Aziraphale’s. 

Crowley immediately strode over to Xaphan and grasped their hand, a layer of ash flaking from their skin and smearing his palm in pale grey. “You’re coming with me. You can explain yourself as soon as Aziraphale is no longer alone with that prick of a Principality. Come on.”

“Wait, what are you – _no_ –”

Crowley hadn’t intended to leave the Bentley behind a second time, but circumstances demanded a faster way of travel. He held Xaphan’s wrist in a vice grip. They shrieked and thrashed behind him the whole way through the phone line, and an instant had never lasted longer – but it was only an instant, and when the other demon stood by his side in the bookshop, panting and wheezing and snowing ash onto the carpet, Aziraphale stood before them both unharmed, if a little rattled. Behind the angel, a young man in pristine powder blue was neatly sat on the sofa. The Principality Nithael had already been graciously provided with a fragrant cup of chamomile tea, and gave a little wave over it as he recognized Xaphan.

“Well,” Aziraphale started with the most fragile cheer, helplessly looking at Crowley as the demon glared daggers at the sofa, “you’re back just a tad sooner than we planned, dearest.”

“Just as well,” Crowley replied, venomously. “Seems we’ve got a tad more planning to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 For a certain value of mock. The demon knew where Aziraphale’s dismissiveness of his own hobbies and passions stemmed from, and was once again reminded of how badly he wanted to punch Gabriel in his infuriatingly perfect teeth. [return to text]
> 
> 2 A Yinchuan cocktail, among others composed of whiskey, black pepper, and sweet peaches. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Like an alarming number of his schemes, this one had come around to sting him. Oh, Crowley had come to an understanding with the bees eventually, having been the one to arm them in the first place, but he’d found the little guardians as hard to part from their golden hoard as any dragon now that they _were_ armed. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Who’d shed only the once and wasn’t keen on repeating that whole debacle, even though the results were as beautiful as they were satisfying after six thousand years wearing the same old scales. [return to text]


	2. Friends on the Other Side

“Alright,” said Crowley, warily eying the demon by his side and the angel on the sofa as he stalked over to a worried-looking Aziraphale. “I know we said you were always welcome on Earth and you’d know where to find us, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t mean this soon. D’ya miss us, or…?”

Nithael delicately put down his tea on the one clear spot between all the papers and parchments littering Aziraphale’s coffee table. “I’m afraid this is more than just a friendly visit. As I was just telling Aziraphale, I’ve been tasked with taking over his bookshop, as well as his former function of field agent, now that he’s leaving London.” He glanced at Xaphan. “I gather you’re here for the same reason?”

The ashy demon widened their eyes. “This is so weird. We’re to be rivals then, yeah? Thwart one another without being seen? What happened to that?”

“I presume our stealth is ruined for now. I, for one, will take care to mend that.”

Crowley, despite everything, had to chuckle. “I think Aziraphale and I proved rather definitively that approach doesn’t work. You two are even earlier to meet than we did. At least I got a _single_ wile in first.” He narrowed his eyes. “But hold on, how’d you know we’re leaving? Is Head Office still spying on us? Which part of ‘to be left alone in future’ don’t they get?”

“It’s only general Earth observation, not you specifically,” Nithael hurried to explain. “It’s… it’s just…”

Aziraphale cocked his head in interest. “Nobody ever checks the observation files. How on Earth could they know this soon?”

“Hell doesn’t even _have_ observation files,” Crowley remarked. “Downstairs doesn’t have a view.”

“I don’t know any more than you do,” said Xaphan. “Must’ve been the backchannels.”

“There are no backchannels,” Aziraphale smiled.

“Exactly.” Xaphan cracked a brief, sharp-fanged grin before seemlingly remembering themselves.

Crowley’s eyes had flicked back to Nithael. The other angel was uncharacteristically fidgety, displaying a highly interesting crack in his usually serene behavior. The serpent in him was drawn to it as if to a nervous mouse. “Principality?”

“I… may have happened to check the observation files at just the right moment,” Nithael muttered. “And you understand I had to report my findings to Gabriel.”

“We don’t, actually,” said Crowley, at the exact moment Aziraphale let out a sympathetic “Yes, we do.” The angel glanced at his husband. “You remember how I was only two short years ago, dearest. He’s an angel, he can’t disobey.”

“Oh, I could have,” Nithael spoke, wretchedly. He gestured at Aziraphale. “I mean, it’s not like anyone fears Falling anymore. But they would’ve found out eventually, right? And _someone_ needs to do _something_ according to protocol. And… well…”

“There’s a reason you were checking the files,” Aziraphale said gently, settling down in his favorite chair. Crowley remained standing, resting a hand on his husband’s shoulder. Xaphan awkwardly sat down on the sofa next to Nithael, turning an uneasy smirk on the angel. “Spying on them after all, feathers?”

“Just on Earth.” Nithael had wrapped his arms around himself, not looking anyone in the eye. “Anyway, Upstairs has taken possession of this shop effective immediately, transferring it to my name. I have my orders to begin carrying out my new function effective immediately, too.”

“They can’t do that,” Crowley snapped. “It’s more complicated than that, I should know. They have to go through human channels –”

“They did.”

“Oh, for –”

“No, no, that won’t do at all,” Aziraphale worried. “At least let me pack my things, first.”

Nithael looked around as if seeing the shop for the first time. “Your things, yes.” There was a peculiar, almost manic glint to his eye. “You have so many material objects. You know, I’ve been manifesting… things into my office, too, lately, even if I didn’t need them. It’s the strangest… well, the strangest thing, really.”

“Things,” Crowley said dryly. But there’d been a change in the room, and Nithael seemed to realize he had everyone’s attention. “Yes,” he hesitated.

“What kinds of things?” asked Aziraphale, leaning forward in his seat.

“Oh, well. Nothing of note. Flowers in crystal vases, then a bouquet, candlesticks, furniture other than my desk.” Nithael’s hands were still crampedly clasped in his lap. “It all just felt so… empty Up There. Ever since I was down here last.”

“I know,” Aziraphale nodded slowly, quietly marveling. “Too empty. It’s why I’ve cozied up the shop for myself –”

“Cluttered, angel, cluttered is the word you’re looking for,” Crowley affectionately interjected.

“– although I bought all of this, of course, didn’t manifest any of it,” Aziraphale went on, giving his husband a sideways smile. “It’s more _ethical_ that way, you understand[1].”

“It was all completely unseemly,” Nithael exclaimed abruptly, shaking his head. “It’s for the best I was transferred. I will attempt to put myself straight here.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder briefly, their ethereal and occult selves brushing together. _I don’t think that’ll go the way he thinks it will._

_It never does, does it? Earth has its way with us all._

_Let’s wait and see._ Crowley turned to Xaphan. “And you? You’ve been awfully quiet, Burning Sky.”

“ _Former_ Burning Sky,” the demon replied sourly. “…I wish Hell had a view. Being here sucks, but it beats the paper-pushing I’ve been demoted to. Needing to borrow hellfire from some other sap every time I need a bloody signature.” They growled, and ash came flaking off their shoulders and back, piling up on the sofa. Aziraphale reached out with a pained look. “Ah, if you could – perhaps –”

Xaphan looked back, wincing in embarrassment. “Ah – sorry. Happens all the time nowadays.” They snapped their fingers, instantly cleaning up the mess.

Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley. _Sorry?_

 _Well well. Everything changes, indeed._ Crowley gave a slight nod at the other demon. “That’s rough, buddy. If it’s any consolation, Earth can be a lot of fun if you take care not to burn it to the ground. The humans will basically do your job for you, sometimes even in that regard. All you have to do is find a new hobby.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time here,” Aziraphale agreed. “Even if I assume Head Office sees the position as useless at best and punishment at worst.”

Nithael and Xaphan were both silent for a moment, exchanging rather awkward glances. Then, slowly, Nithael shook his head. “We can’t possibly,” he said. “Now London is out of your hands, things will really have to go back to the way they’re supposed to.”

“Yes, but you’ve _both_ been assigned to London and you know one another’s whereabouts,” Aziraphale argued. “Doesn’t that defeat the very point of being a field agent for your respective Head Offices?”

“We could give you some pointers on how Earth works, you know,” Crowley offered. Aziraphale nodded. “Both of you. It’d be our pleasure, really. A favour from one Principality and demon to another?”

Another uneasy glance back and forth. “We’ll work it out,” Xaphan spoke. “We have our orders, we’ll follow them.”

“Alright,” Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourselves. But let us pack and move out at our own pace, yeah? We’ll be out of your wings and antennae before you know it.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder. _They won’t last the month before crawling back to us for help._

The angel gave a small, mildly bastardly smile full of utter confidence and worse: faith. _I know, dearest._

Here’s the thing about faith, though – even that of an angel could be misplaced.

Later that evening, Nithael checked into one of the finest rooms of the reputable Courthouse Hotel, perching onto pristine white bedsheets and resting his feet on a pristine white carpet, taking in the clean sleekness of the room and feeling himself calm down. His surroundings were reassuringly close to Heavenly. Heaven had arranged his stay, after all.

There was a single elegant flower in a crystal vase on his nightstand. The humans must’ve put it there; Heaven wouldn’t decorate the room with something devoid of practical use, and as an angel he had very little use for anything material. Nithael tried not to pay it any mind.

He took a deep breath, got up, moved over to the wall and manifested a pristine white piece of chalk.

Meanwhile, Xaphan had taken up residence in a dingy homeless shelter near Charing Cross, claimed the bottom mattress of a rickety bunk bed and snatched up another denizen’s staticky radio before slouching in on themselves and hanging their shaggy head over it. No one else had the gall to object; their sulphur stench and the barely audible droning hum of beetle wings just to the left of reality took care of that.

The radio’s previous owner had taken to playing with a lighter. Xaphan decidedly didn’t stare at the little flame lighting up the gloomy room. Ash decidedly didn’t pile up around the radio, either.

Nithael finished drawing his intricate circle on the wall, white on pearly grey. As a cool, white glow lit up the room behind him, he minutely straightened out even further. “Good evening. This is the Principality Nithael speaking.”

Xaphan tapped the radio with a clawed finger. “Hey. It’s me.”

Two very different voices replied. “State your report.”

Nithael folded his hands behind his back. “Everything is going according to plan. I was invited into the bookshop and have established contact with my predecessor, although…”

“…the new angel’s also seen me,” Xaphan reluctantly growled out.

“Inconsequential to your task,” the static crackled. “Play along. Keep your distance. Perform some corruptions and temptations, but not enough to draw the angel’s attention or the ire of the traitors.”

“Of course, Lord.” Xaphan hunched over further, eyes dark and glinting, reflecting the little earthly flame just ahead. “Crowley’s offered to give us both ‘pointers’…”

“…both of us have been offered help in understanding Earth’s workings,” Nithael reported, fidgeting with his fingers for want of something material to fidget with. He found himself glancing back at the flower on his nightstand. “Just as predicted.”

“Very well done, Nithael,” came the voice from the light.

“Play hard to get for a bit, as long as you deem fitting,” rasped the voice from the static. “Then bite. Getting closer shouldn’t be hard then. They seemed ever so… _interested_ in your development.”

“We simply have to know why Aziraphale didn’t Fall,” hummed the light. “Find out what happened at the trials, Nithael.”

“Upstairs is dying to know what happened,” chuckled the static. “So we simply have to know first, and flaunt it in their faces. And remember, Xaphan when this is over with…”

“Remember, Nithael, if you successfully complete this assignment…”

“…your fire will be returned to you, and you can obliterate your adversary personally…”

“…you’ll be granted the special opportunity to vanquish the demon Xaphan yourself, truly becoming all an angel should be…”

The light and the static both paused, presumably for a bit of dramatic effect. “…and maybe, depending on what you find out, the two traitors as well.”

Nithael slightly bowed his head. “I’d be my honour to help put things right.”

Xaphan flashed a rictus grin. “Music to my ears.”

The angel banished the chalk circle with a snap of his elegant fingers, stiffly turned around and moved back to the bed, lost in thought. As he sat down next to the flower in its little vase, he reached out one absent-minded hand, brushing the faintest touch over its delicate petals. 

The demon closed the channel on the radio and made to smash its worn little frame in, vaguely impressed it’d survived the call at all – but froze in their movement as they found its previous owner standing before them. Xaphan slowly looked up, eyes coming to a rest on the lighter in her hands. On a sudden impulse, they snatched it from her grip. The woman in turn snatched back the radio, but Xaphan made no move to stop her. In fact, save for flicking on the lighter and occasionally miracling up new fuel for its little flame, they didn’t move another muscle for the remainder of the night.

That night passed, as did quite a few days.

On a rather fine one of those, another angel and demon sat in the grass near their future cottage, enjoying the summer sun. They’d brought a sweet white wine and a small basket of baked goods, and entertained themselves looking at the workmen they’d hired trying to figure out how the house was putting itself together so fast.

There’d been a prognosis for about two months of renovation work. Yet, every time the workmen brought up a point – load-bearing walls being too far gone for restoration, roof beams having rotted through – the issue would be miraculously fixed or at least much improved the very next day. Crowley and Aziraphale might not actually be doing any physical labour, their presence was very much required at this stage. They were doing this the human way, but only to the absolutely required extent.

“Hmm. I was thinking of maybe hanging some fuchsias over there.” Crowley gestured with his glass. “Or night sky petunias, always fancied those.”

“A little path leading to the greenhouse over there, perhaps?” Aziraphale popped a scone into his mouth. “And the chickens near it? You’d stop them from getting any ideas, surely.”

Crowley looked over, squinting against the sunlight even through his glasses. “I’d _discourage_ them. Being my chickens, they’d probably get ideas all on their own, and seeing as they’re not here yet it’s safe to say I’d be proud.” The demon leant back, basking, resisting the very real temptation of offering his scales to the sunlight. There’d be plenty of time for that fairly soon.

At this rate, the house would be ready for furnishing within the month. The two of them were already giddy just thinking about figuring out what would go where, combining everything into a tapestry of their lives. Aziraphale offered his glass, and Crowley clinked his against it. “To our world, angel.”

“To our world, dearest.” Aziraphale beamed, but then cocked his head in thought. “Hmm. Do you suppose Nithael and Xaphan will really come around? Ask for help and actually take to heart what we’ll tell them when they do?”

“Eh, you saw how they were at the wedding. Leaving stuff out of a report to Heaven? Leaving Earth without setting anything on fire at all? Downright revolutionary’s what it is.”

“Xaphan’s lost their hellfire though, haven’t they?”

“Doesn’t mean they couldn’t still be a pyromaniac.”

“That seems fair.”

Crowley pensively studied the workmen on their scaffolding, quietly snapping his fingers a few times to have the windowsills sand themselves down for them. “They’re leaning, angel, and faster than we ever did at that.”

“Faster than _I_ did, you mean.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Crowley grinned. “It took Adam for me to really understand humans.” He paused. “But yeah – even now, sure they’re doing their jobs, there’s a bit more goodwill and vice in London, but they’re being so _careful_. No brainwashing. No bloody big fires, hellish or no.”

“Mm. We did sort of pave the way for them, didn’t we. Just maybe, when they get to see a bit more of Earth, they’ll make a pair of decent field agents. Adjust to London just a bit more easily.”

“London will adjust more easily to _them_ , you mean.”

Aziraphale gave a bashful smile. He’d be lying if he denied his influence on Soho, or claimed it was lesser than Crowley’s on Mayfair. “Ah. There is that, yes.”

Crowley downed his wine and refilled it immediately. “What’re your plans for Nithael, then?”

Aziraphale brightened. “Oh, I do have a few ideas – I’m not certain which will resonate with him best, but – but oh, let’s not worry about any of that for now, dearest. I’m very much looking forward to showing him around, but not nearly as much as sharing this cottage with you.” Crowley smiled at this, letting his chin be tipped up for a kiss that tasted like sweet wine and sunlight. “You’re right,” he admitted, more than a little drunk on both. “It’s hard to worry when life is this good.” How peculiar. Not too long ago, he’d have worried _because_ life was this good. Now, it really was hard to focus on anything but Aziraphale rearranging his loose-limbed form until his back rested against the angel’s warm chest. Crowley closed his eyes, smiling. “What’d you say I paint us a starscape on the bedroom ceiling?”

“That sounds wonderful. Oh, but how about the library ceiling instead?”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “Wh-”

“It’s bigger and I’ll get to see it more often,” Aziraphale explained brightly. “Also, I was thinking of getting us a canopy bed to keep you just a little closer when you decide to forego gravity at night.”

Not even holy water, Crowley decided, had ever melted a demon as effectively as what this angel could do to him.

While Aziraphale and Crowley enjoyed their wedded bliss, Nithael and Xaphan found themselves in one unfamiliar situation after another.

They might both, unbeknownst to eachother, be here on a covert mission concerning their predecessors, but they still had to carry out the tasks of an angelic and demonic field agent – and without relying on the heavy-handed tactics they’d used and got discorporated for last time. Nithael found himself encouraging and inspiring mankind’s virtues, Xaphan its vices.

Nithael took it upon himself to inspire a few of London’s current big names in the arts, nudging their centerpieces towards themes of benevolence and harmony. He sought out and brushed shoulders with promising politicians, leading them to campaign ever more convincingly for equality and environmentalism. The world was his garden; he’d make it bloom to the best of his abilities.

Xaphan crept through the city’s underbelly, its nightclubs and alleyways, inciting bar brawls, encouraging drug use and theft; even for one specialized in destruction alone, it wasn’t very hard to get the hang of sin and vice. To their surprise, their chosen environment had its upwards connections, up to the point where they too could extend their influence to politics, inspiring the taking of bribes, petty corruption and the approval of a few unnecessary highways cutting through nearby nature reserves[2].

The more this went on, though, the more the angel and demon realized how unpredictable their jobs really were. Humanity, they found, had a pesky habit of turning around and undoing all their hard work as soon as they’d turned their backs – or they improved on it in ways even they hadn’t foreseen.

The artists Nithael inspired turned to liquor and drugs without Xaphan ever touching them. The angel’s politicians went home and were horrible to their spouses and children. Some of Xaphan’s newly minted addicts vowed to sober up out of love for their own families, and many thieves were easy to inspire because they had mouths to feed.

There appeared to be good and evil in all of them, and Nithael and Xaphan couldn’t get a proper grasp on any of it. They found themselves meeting, involuntarily locking eyes in the street, through the bars of Hyde Park’s fence, through grimy pub windows. They found themselves understanding, even if just marginally, how Crowley and Aziraphale had once felt; like the other party was the only one who could possibly understand this predicament.

“Is it you?” Nithael asked quietly, having allowed himself to be invited to one of Xaphan’s more reputable pubs. “Negating everything I do? If so, very well done, you’re really testing my diligence.”

“How kind of you to say,” Xaphan sneered over their Spyritus vodka[3]. “But no, it isn’t. I gather it’s not you undoing all my hard work, either?”

Nithael shook his head, pondering. There was the slightest hint of dark circles under his eyes. Xaphan found themselves close to shocked at this break in perfection. “And it can’t even be _them,_ ” the demon flared. “They’re out of town far too much to do any real amount of work –”

“But it can’t be _humanity_ , can it? Free will, yes, but this – I mean –” Nithael gestured as if attempting to pull the words from the air. “Hypothetically, if they’re this strong, why do our respective Offices need field agents?”

This hung between them for a bit, all but visibly fluttering in the smoky air like a vivid crimson flag. Neither of them dared glance at it.

“I’m not reporting it,” Xaphan then uttered, staring into their glass so intently the drink ought to have caught fire regardless of alcohol or demonic intent.

“No, that seems prudent.” Nithael hesitated. “…Say. They did offer some insight on how they managed to fulfill this task for six thousand years. Are you. That is. This seems like the moment to take them up on that.”

Xaphan looked up. Stared. There was nothing but sincerity on the angel’s face. Not one single ulterior motive, nor any suspicion – although then again, one should really expect no less than a perfect masquerade from one of Heaven’s finest. _Stupid angel,_ they still thought, all but ranting. _This leads me to the intel Hell wants, me getting my fire back and_ snap, _me gaining a head start over some new, less experienced competition up here – or even getting sent back to the Department of Infernal Flame. Literally all I’ve dreamt of since I was up here last._ Xaphan’s eyes flickered, gaining facets as their focus turned inward. For some pesky, inane reason they couldn’t quite grasp, the thought didn’t sit quite right with them. Something to do with being totally alone on a planet with only one other person capable of understanding your situation. _Didn’t Heaven offer you the same? They’re not big on forgiveness and Gabriel really wants that information, I know that much. Why forgo the chance to gather it all by yourself, reap the reward and dodge the punishment?_

“…Xaphan?”

_But then again, why am I sitting in a human pub opposite an angel?_

“I hadn’t expected to actually need help,” Xaphan heard themself say. “Blast, I hadn’t expected to actually be _interested._ ” And wasn’t that the weirdest thing of all.

“We might be on the brink of understanding why they went native.” Nithael gave an equally troubled smile. “I’m not sure I want to find out, but I also don’t want to make the same mistakes myself.” He sagely steepled his fingers. “Infallibility sometimes requires study.”

“Agreed. Let’s find out more, then.”

It seemed they’d be going together, have an equal shot at fulfilling their missions. But would that mitigate or exascerbate the weirdness of it all? Nithael might be an angel, but at least he understood the way things ought to work…

The demon stared at the angel for a moment longer, before abruptly pouring the last of their vodka onto the table and setting it aflame in blue and orange. With a snap, that fire leapt to the nearby grubby curtains; not enough to do any lasting damage to the pub, but enough of a distraction to allow them both to walk out without payment as the barkeep came sprinting past them in alarm. “Let’s go.” Xaphan swiveled around, walking backwards both to see the bit of chaos and the angel’s affronted expression. “But let’s… let’s not go in _together._ Let’s not give those two saps the satisfaction of knowing we had this meeting, yeah?” It wasn’t supposed to have happened. They were supposed to be unmoving, _both_ of them. Any alternative was too terrifying to consider.

Nithael, blessedly, looked right through them as he walked. “What meeting, fiend?”

“…Exactly,” Xaphan breathed, relieved.

As renovations came to a close, Aziraphale had started packing in earnest, meaning he was finally touching his books. The shop was slowly but steadily turning into a warehouse of boxes. The angel didn’t like it one bit; he’d had to be repeatedly talked out of packing every single one of his books separately, or unpacking one box after another to see if everything inside was still in good shape. Crowley stayed by his side, attempting to comfort him through it. “Miracling away any possible damage just wouldn’t be the same,” the angel fretted. “I’d know it was there –”

“That’s all well and good, but I know you to be rather good at restoring them the material way, too.” Crowley gently bumped their shoulders together over their shared box. “Don’t sell yourself short. Step one on your way to not selling anything ever again, really.”

The prospect of a library never failed to brighten the angel up. Aziraphale pecked Crowley on the cheek, returning the favor. “Thank you, my dear.”

The bell above the shop’s door tinkled. The two of them looked up, into the black eyes of a gaunt demon with ashy fingertips. “Ah, Xaphan,” Crowley smirked. “How goes the nefarious business?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” they blurted out, striding in. “Nothing’s _sticking._ ”

Aziraphale moved to his favorite chair, settling down and tenting his fingers. “Whatever do you mean, dear chap?”

“I mean, I know I’m not that good at inciting sin,” the demon went on, gesturing dramatically and sending plumes of grey into the air. “I was always more of a ‘burn everything and let them blame eachother’ kind of demon. But I’m doing things by the book now, the way the Dukes instructed me, and still they turn around and do good like I wasn’t even there!”

“Maybe you should spread your influence further afield,” the angel replied serenely. “Nithael must be interfering with you.”

“It’s not him,” Xaphan insisted, sharply rounding on Aziraphale. “He hasn’t been anywhere near me – I’m supposed to be thwarting the opposition, but this bloody planet thwarts _me_ before I even get the chance –” They abruptly shut their mouth and looked up as the little bell tinkled again. Their eyes met Nithael’s, and the two field agents ended up staring very prominent daggers at eachother for a moment. Then they both turned to Crowley and Aziraphale. “How did you do it?” Nithael inquired, attempting to mask tired defeat with curious interest but only managing in a partial, Phantom of the Opera sort of way. “How did you manage to get anything done when this very world twists away from you no matter what you try?”

Crowley grinned. “Are you asking for pointers?”

Nithael pinched the bridge of his nose, almost as though stifling a curse. Aziraphale leant forward in interest, but the other Principality managed to keep it in. “Yes, I am. Humility is a virtue, I see that now.”

“Might be so, but I’d like some advice as well,” Xaphan remarked.

“Well, if you’re asking nicely.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale. “What’d you say, love?”

“Well, Principalities are supposed to be teachers,” the angel beamed. “Let me fulfill my role correctly just this once. I’d say we could go for a crash course while we’re all still in one place. One last round of this marvelous city for us oldtimers, one first round for the newcomers.” He primly folded his hands, looking at said newcomers expectantly. “Let’s start tomorrow?”

“Sounds perfect,” Nithael breathed in relief. Aziraphale nodded, satisfied. “Meet us here at teatime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 This was a favorite topic of late-night debate. Aziraphale would maintain it was more ethical to actually buy things, Crowley would insist it would be more ethical instead to not flood the market with miracled money. As Crowley tended to miracle or steal most of his possessions, they just happened to balance things out fairly well between the two of them. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Neither of their politicians developed a clear opinion on Brexit; not even Heaven and Hell were keen on touching that one. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Boasting an alcohol percentage of 96% and being more suited for inhaling than drinking, they hadn’t actually ordered it for either of those; instead, they periodically set it on fire with their stolen lighter, watching the fumes drift away and trying not to give into the temptation to spit a fine cloud of it through the flame for some real fun. [return to text]


	3. As Above, So Below

“Now, if you’re to be my replacement and live amongst humanity, dear boy,” said the Principality in tan to the Principality in blue by his side as they strolled through the majestic pillared entrance hall of one of London’s finest institutes, “it only seems fair to catch you up on my advantage of having seen them through all six thousand years of their development. Allow me to provide you with a summary of sorts. Of course, it can hardly do all of it justice, but the upside is that it’s all very visual, very tangible and very real.”

They stepped out into daylight, and into the British Museum proper.

After the museum’s heavy Ionic facade, the modern, glass-covered interior came as a bit of a surprise to Nithael. The Principality kept alertly looking around, from the triangular panes forming the gently curved ceiling to the various other Grecian entrances all around them now. Aziraphale supposed part of his skittishness must also be due to the company he’d found himself in. “Do you like it?” he inquired gently. “It took me some time to get used to the new layout, but you must admit the poetry in a museum moving with the times…”

“Things really have changed,” the other angel murmured. “And you said this is only one of many? And they’re all free?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale beamed. “All this knowledge, freely accessible! And here’s the best part, dear boy, they thought that up themselves!”

“Well, with you living amongst them, of course they’d value knowledge enough to do something like that,” Nithael argued. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but the other angel was faster. “Say, do they still remember the Garden? They must, mustn’t they?”

“I’m afraid not. The earliest histories have been lost to the ages, and, well, religion, blending into cultural memory the same way we have ourselves.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, content to let Nithael explore at his own pace for now. It wouldn’t do to confuse him this soon. “I didn’t find myself minding too much,” he still let slip, smiling quietly. Amongst all of Earth’s creatures, the truth of the Garden had become something between him and Crowley alone, something they could share even through all the centuries, all the distance and all the difficulties that’d stood between them. The angel supposed it’d always been terribly romantic that way. “Oh, but I do believe the oldest artifacts present here are from ancient Egypt.” They weren’t; there were also items from the Paleolithic, but Aziraphale thought it as wise to skip these as it’d been to skip the Natural History Museum, marvelous though it was. He’d only be embarrassed by people overhearing Nithael’s inevitable quips about the Almighty’s sense of humour.

Aziraphale knew exactly what lesson he wanted to impart today. It wouldn’t do to spring it on Nithael rightaway, however. He’d decided to let the other angel come to his own conclusions first.

The two of them moved through the galleries as Nithael thoughtfully studied statues, pieces of tomb and temple wall. However, he especially lingered and eyed the myriad of smaller objects used in ancient humanity’s day-to-day life. “What… were all of these for, may I ask?”

Aziraphale quirked the smallest of smiles at this curiosity on the subject of material objects. “Well, you see, humans don’t have our miracles.”

“Obviously,” Nithael agreed.

“This means they have to take care of all sorts of little things in their own way. They have to comb their hair and look at themselves in mirrors to do it, for example.” Aziraphale gestured at both objects in their glass cases respectively. “They make clothing and paint and jewellery, they cook, they do all these wonderful, clever, wonderfully clever little things that make them… them.” Nithael remained thoughtfully quiet as they walked on, and so Aziraphale happily chatted away, reminiscing about his time in Tanis, Amarna and Thebes, constantly getting lost in details and correcting himself, recalling acquaintances and friendships and all the odd jobs he’d done for Heaven. He was just on the subject of a favorite baker who’d get his date loaves just right when Nithael suddenly interrupted him. “And what about all this?”

They’d ended up in another hall altogether, filled with massive statues. Aziraphale turned to see Nithael facing away from him, looking at a granite image of Horus. “All these other… gods?” Nithael grimaced, almost struggling to get it out.

“Ah.” Aziraphale blinked, briefly searching for the right words. He knew what the other angel meant, although he’d never quite had the same hangups himself. Seeing a culture develop before one’s eyes did much to mellow an angel out of much of Heaven’s strictness, he supposed. “I always… tried to clarify to Head Office they were simply interpretations of the Almighty. They are creators, protectors, guides of humanity. They’re versions of Her, and us, really[1]. I always thought their inventiveness rather charming.”

“But they’re not us, are they? Not really. I recall we had a bit of smiting done on the matter. We had a prophet in those days, what was his name…”

“Moses,” Aziraphale heard himself say, as if from far away. He suddenly recalled an awful lot of indelicacies, the hardening of hearts and innocence getting caught in the middle. _More like something you’d expect my lot to do._ His heart sank. He could feel himself being pulled from all his fond memories and into another set altogether, both brighter and colder.

“Yes, that was it. I heard our intervention in those days was sorely needed.”

Not that long ago, Aziraphale would’ve reacted rather sharply to this, but only because he’d seen a little too much of himself in Nithael, the way he’d been not too long before that. His days of parroting Heaven in the assumption that angelic intervention was sorely needed were shamefully recent, in fact. But he’d gradually come to forgive himself for following Heaven’s rigid doctrines, and he could forgive Nithael for being rather Heavenly now, even if it was making him anxious. The other Principality was here to learn, and it hadn’t even taken him six thousand years and the end of the world to come this far.

Aziraphale took a breath, steadying himself. “Yes, we did intervene in Egypt. But here’s the point, dear boy. It’s a rather good example of the knowledge I planned to impart, in fact.” They walked on together, beneath the massive granite face of Rameses II, Aziraphale with his hands folded behind his back and Nithael curiously following. “I never learned whether or not it was a demon who started the whole thing, with the children. I do know it wasn’t Crowley.” _You can’t kill kids._ Even then, Aziraphale had admired the demon for his principles, and been a little ashamed of his own. “But what _is_ certain, is that Heaven caused the rest of the unpleasantness, and would’ve continued to do so if the pharaoh hadn’t given in.” He recalled the meetings Upstairs back in the day; especially Sandalphon had taken great glee in the brainstorming sessions for the plagues, a rare display of creativity Aziraphale was fairly certain the Archangel regretted having to put a stop to when the Israelites had been freed.

“Egypt was enslaving those people, Aziraphale –”

“There were plenty of slaves throughout all of Earth’s nations over the course of its history,” Aziraphale replied brightly. “I was never bid to help any of them, much as it pained me to see their plight. Why were these worth so much trouble? Remind me again. Ah, yes. They were our most devout.”

“Those murdered children –”

“Do you remember the Flood, Nithael?” Aziraphale softened somewhat as he saw the pained look on the other angel’s face. It was quite alright, he reminded himself. He’d fully woken up to Heaven’s fallibility fairly recently, and the bitterness of it all could sometimes twist at his heart a little too roughly. It was quite alright that Nithael wasn’t ready yet – but the other angel was visibly struggling.

“Look around,” Aziraphale gentled. “People have the capacity of being delightful without Heaven’s influence, or terrible without Hell’s. People have always been people, for better or for worse, often both in the very same person. It’s the messing about of higher powers that muddles everything up.”

“…What are you saying?”

Aziraphale took a breath, steeling himself slightly. This realization hadn’t come easy to him, either. “I’m saying angels on Earth are not _necessary_ , Nithael. Look what humanity has been up to all by themselves, how far they’ve come, all the way to this,” he gestured to the magnificence around them, “and how much further beyond, and in all their little ways that mattered even more. Of course I performed my assignments, but they made me look so much more competent than I was. The best of it was all _them._ If Head Office had known how little of a difference I’d actually made…”

Nithael looked horrified. “So that’s your advice? To stand aside and do nothing?” He raised his voice, uncaring of the young family just beside them, who quickly sidestepped as he went on. “Aziraphale, they could always be _better._ Closer to perfection. We should at least stop them from being terrible, as you put it. Is this…” His expression shifted, realizing. “Is this how you weren’t burned by hellfire? You forsaking your duties to this extent, is this how you became so impure hellfire couldn’t touch you?”

Aziraphale’s face had fallen ever further as Nithael had gone on. “This talk of perfection and purity, dear boy, those are not the _point_.”

“Then what is? Pray tell, enlighten me. Something must’ve gone very wrong somewhere down the line. No personal offense.”

Aziraphale composed himself ever so slightly. It was hard to stay calm and positive with such a vivid reminder of Heaven right next to him, but he’d persevere. Nithael had requested his help, he’d give it. “It’s alright if you don’t understand rightaway. You might yet.” The angel quirked a smile. He was far from out of material, surrounded by this wealth of history as he was. “Pip-pip. There’s more to see.” He’d been having these kinds of conversations with Crowley for thousands of years, and mostly for fun at that. There was still time.

Nithael was quiet throughout most of the Assyrian, Sudanese, Greek and Roman galleries, letting Aziraphale do the talking as they moved through humanity’s achievements, delights and terrors. His face had grown rather troubled seeing the gear of Roman gladiators, however, and as they moved on to Persia and arrived in a room dedicated to Alexander the Great, the other Principality froze once again before a plaque detailing the Macedonian king’s deeds. “There’s so much violence,” he uttered, appalled. “They’ve been fighting the same wars over and over. This one conquered multiple empires that were doing just fine! Is anything of that scale happening in this age?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Aziraphale replied thoughtfully. “Although it is harder to tell nowadays.” He also thought it wise, he mused to himself, to not get into the matter of how most of the items had ended up in this museum in the first place, at least for now. Much like Alexander’s conquests, there was always a darker side to outward glory.

“But this is why they need Heavenly intervention! Even moreso if these perversions aren’t demonic in nature, like you say! They can’t break free of it themselves –”

“And we have?”

“…What?”

Aziraphale primly folded his hands. “ _We_ did the same thing to them over and over, didn’t we? Heaven started some of those wars, others were started because they thought it was our will, and we encouraged the rest in one form or another by picking sides against our _own_ adversary. Frankly, I don’t think the Almighty actually wanted or needed any of our input.”

“Well, we can’t know that,” Nithael reasoned. “It’s ineffable.” And just like that, Aziraphale fully realized why Crowley always groaned hearing that word. “Nithael, listen. We’ve been preparing for another war for six thousand years ourselves when the first one brought us nowhere. Criticizing humanity so harshly for the same imperfections seems rather… well, rather hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“That’s different,” the other Principality argued. “That’s _Hell,_ that’s for the good of everything there’s ever been –” He caught Aziraphale’s eye, and the glint of warning in it. “Well. I suppose we ought to agree to disagree on this.”

“On everything so far, I think,” Aziraphale said, straightening his tie and finally admitting to himself he wasn’t quite getting through to the other angel just yet. “Let’s… let’s adjourn for the day.”

Later, and the angel in blue once again stood before an ornate circle of white chalk. “I believe it’s as we feared. He’s picked both… ‘sides’.” Nithael gave a slight shudder. “He accepted and probably encouraged humanity to be both good and evil, and he’s been doing so for thousands of years. It must be how he can now survive both holy water and hellfire.”

The light on the other side was quiet for a time. “That’s horrifying,” it then hummed. “To forsake one’s nature that thoroughly… that’s worse than Falling. If that is how he did it…and he _didn’t_ Fall for it… no, it doesn’t bear thinking about.” A glowing pause. “Continue your work, Nithael. See if you can find out more definitive answers.”

The Principality folded his hands and gave a slight bow. “Of course. I sincerely hope there’s another explanation as well.”

And privately, rebelliously, scandalously, he confirmed to himself he had a mission of his own now, too; to find out why the Almighty saw fit to let the Earth continue on as anything less than perfect. He hoped he could find the answer before a stop would be put to his time down here, one way or another.

Earlier that day, two demons had strolled up to the crown jewel of Westminster.

“I’ve been here,” Xaphan had said as they’d entered through the beautifully carven gates of Parliament. “I’ve been up to my elbows in politics.”

“Oh, I know.” Crowley glanced over. “Found the fastest way into the House of Lords chamber yet?”

“Stairs, corridors, stairs, sharp left? Yeah. Anything to avoid the queue.” Xaphan narrowed their eyes. “Was that one of yours?”

“Nope. I didn’t usually bother with this place too much.” Crowley flashed a sharp grin. “I just come here to relax.”

“Can’t fault you for it. I thought this was a church at first, it’s a bit unsettling.”

“That’s fair, there’s even a tower with clocks and a bell and everything. Still not totally sure what they were going for there.” No one took note of them in the slightest as they wandered in. Men and women in sharp and less sharp suits hurried past them, as well as the representatives of the House of Lords in their scarlet robes. Shoes and heels clicked on checkered tiles, stressed chatter echoed up to magnificently vaulted ceilings. It really did look like a cathedral, Crowley had to admit. “Luckily you, uh, won’t be burning your feet off in here.” He pushed up his sunglasses; he might be a demon and very used to lying even as demons went, but he felt very uneasy about having to actively maintain the lie he was immune to anything holy nowadays. He’d have to tread carefully around anyone from either Head Office; it’d be a funny old world where demons trusted one another, and angels were even worse.

“Lucky indeed. So, why are we here? What’d I miss?” They narrowed their eyes again. “We’re not going to a committee meeting, are we? I don’t need to be lectured on a lecture – especially not about that great blundering ‘Brexit’ atrocity, Downstairs agreed to let me sit that one out –”

“Nah, don’t worry. Just – watch the people. Breathe it in.” Crowley turned to his fellow demon. “You’ve been doing a fine job of it, you really have.” He lightly patted Xaphan on the back, immediately regretting it as he inhaled the dusting of ash that took to the air. “But have you ever been here,” he croaked out, “without actually doing _anything?_ Just letting things play out?”

Xaphan’s stare could’ve reduced a mere mortal to a shivering, paranoid mess. Crowley backpedaled. “Have you ever done anything more subtle than focusing your entire arsenal on one politician at a time?”

“What are you on about?”

Crowley chuckled, raising a finger as he walked. “Ah. Watch.” He snapped his fingers at the floor, then ushered Xaphan over to the side of the hallway. Behind them, two of the checkered tiles had switched places, breaking up the intricate pattern. “Sense that.”

Xaphan gave him a flat look. “Is this one of those inane little tricks the Dukes told me abou-” They faltered, their brow creasing in confusion. “Oh, that’s… that’s funny.”

“What do you feel?” Crowley smirked. He very rarely got to share this with anyone.

“That spot.” The other demon looked at the people walking past. Everyone who spotted the wrongly placed tile did a double take, wearing a brief frown as they continued on their way. “That slight marring… that annoyance…” Xaphan nodded. “Alright, so they’re easier to taint than expected, but this seems to be more for your own amusement than to secure souls in any real way.”

Crowley opened his mouth, faltered. “Ye- okay, fair, I do still get a kick out of it. But do you have any idea how easy that was? And how much of that they’re doing to _eachother_ completely unprompted? By accident, or – get this – _not_ by accident?”

“Well, if that’s the worst humanity can do without demons around,” Xaphan responded flippantly.

Crowley began to grin. Oh, his successor was in for a treat. “D’you know,” he began as they joined the chattering masses once again, “ that during the Cold War, the Secretary _of_ War had an affair with a woman he’d been introduced to by a pimp, who was also having an affair with a Russian spy?”

“Okay, so that’s pretty ironic and a good display of Lust, power to ‘em. I’m sure we had that one in the bag.” Xaphan didn’t sound impressed. This was fine. Crowley had more. There was always more. “Did you also know just a few years ago the Prime Minister himself was regularly off his head on drugs, and was found to have put certain bits of himself into a dead pig’s mouth?”

Xaphan looked puzzled. “What bits?”

Crowley told them. Then Crowley explained the significance of said bits. Xaphan looked a little more appreciative after that, but his tutor wasn’t satisfied yet. “Alright – what about the party leader that hired a hitman to murder his lover, but the guy only ended up shooting her dog?”

This had the other demon look over sharply. “ _No._ ”

“That one went straight Down, as I recall. Without me helping in any way, though I would’ve.”

“Oh, good.” They caught themselves. “…For our bottom line, of course.”

“’Course.” Crowley decidedly didn’t hide the uptick of his mouth by looking away. He glanced around, at the finely dressed people all going about their very important business, flitting from room to room, decision to decision. “So, y’see, you can trust them to muddle about on their own just fine. Just take credit for a few of those, they roll around like clockwork. With your image and history, they’ll love you for it. Take up a new hobby, you’ll have a grand old time up here.”

“Okay, wait a second.” Xaphan halted the two of them, letting everyone else pass them by. “It’s bad, sure, maybe worse than what I’ve done up until now, but I’m just getting started. Is that the worst humanity’s got to offer?”

“Oh, it can get worse. But I thought I’d spare you for the time being.”

Xaphan cocked their head. “Do tell.”

Crowley sniffed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He gave them some examples. He watched with a faint smirk as Xaphan went quiet and pale under their thin coat of ash. He sympathized wholeheartedly with their shaky grin afterwards; he’d often mustered up a thing very much like it. “Okay,” they uttered. “Okay, be that as it may. But.” They shook themselves, visibly visiting a happier place in their mind, then giving voice to it. “Why don’t we just burn it all down and win ourselves a ton of souls with the chaos and lawlessness sure to break out then? If I had my fire right now…”

 _Ah. There it is._ “First of all, you’re underestimating them again,” Crowley noted. “They’re very… difficult to keep down, you know. They bounce right back from catastrophe, and more often than not they’re _better_ to eachother after. Remember the Great Fire? 1666?” He had to inwardly groan; the Dukes hadn’t been able to resist pulling their stunt in the cheesiest year imaginable.

Xaphan nodded, a twinkle in their eye. “Sure. Much of my department was there. Grand old time.” They smiled, the softest and happiest Crowley had ever seen them. “City was absolutely gutted, that was some real craftsmanship.”

“Uh-huh. You know what they did after?”

The other demon gave a too-wide grin. “Yeah. Falsely accused some poor sap and hanged him.” They tapped their chin. “And then afterwards, he turned out to have been on a ship when the fire broke out. I can only imagine the guilt, the misery –”

“I mean after _that._ ” Now it was Crowley’s turn to grin. “They came up with half a dozen plans for a new city layout, right here.” He spread his hands for emphasis. “But they ended up rebuilding it pretty much exactly the same, they just improved their fire safety and hygiene while they were at it.”

“I –”

“That grand old time just, uh, immediately backfired.”

“But –” Now the ashy demon looked the most distressed and baffled Crowley had ever seen them, and he decided to ease up a little. “As I said. Very resilient. Now for my second point.” He gestured at the scattered few people still moving through the halls. Most of the crowds had passed, and the atmosphere had calmed; now they could just sense groups of people in the various chambers and meeting spots throughout the great palace. “They can only commit real evil if they have, _at the same time_ mind you, the opportunity to _not._ ”

Xaphan looked more puzzled than ever, their brow furrowed, their eyes all but watery with frustration and incomprehension. “…What?”

“Forcing them into a crappy situation where they only have crappy choices is one thing, but giving them the opportunity – and only that! – to do bad when they just as easily _could_ be doing good, _that’s_ craftsmanship.” Crowley spread his hands. “It’s so much more productive than simply destroying, y’know, objects or bits of morality. More satisfying, too. It’s the difference between –” He gestured, looking for a proper metaphor, his thoughts steadily drifting towards Aziraphale. “– between a good meal and junkfood.”

“But… but junkfood was one of ours.”

“ _Exactly._ ”

Xaphan stared. Dragged a hand down their face, leaving ash in their eyelashes and on their lips. “This is exactly what Hastur was always on about whenever he’d come down for his supplies. If all this is really the case up here – why bother?” The other demon looked around, opening themself and allowing themself to sense, for the first time, that suboptimal and downright abysmal decisions were indeed happening all by themselves all around, as much as good and great ones. And oh. Corruption here. A bribe there. Something decidedly unpolitical just in the broom closet a few halls down… “Why were you put here? Why are field agents even a _thing?_ ”

“Ah.” Crowley leaned against the wall, thoughtful. “I’ve wondered about that, myself. Well, obviously demonic field agents are a thing because _angelic_ field agents are a thing, but… y’know, maybe She wanted some of us here to learn. Not to teach or influence humanity, but… the other way ‘round.”

Xaphan’s eyes were wide, somehow both repulsed and hungry all at once. “And… what did _you_ learn?”

Crowley glanced over. The halls were almost completely quiet now. “You wanna know a secret?”

The other demon leaned forward. “ _Yes._ ”

“Okay, get this: there’s not actually any real difference between Heaven and Hell. About a thousand years ago, Aziraphale and I shook hands on doing eachother’s jobs every once in a while, to help eachother out, for a bit of variety, you know. And we were _good_ at ‘em.”

“You – you _what?!_ ”

“Yeah.” Crowley chuckled. It felt really strange, and pretty good, to finally divulge this particular nugget to another soul – especially knowing no one they’d report to would ever believe them. “He’d do temptations, I’d do blessings, it was all very convenient. And just – just.” He raised a hand, silencing Xaphan’s wide open mouth full of questions vying for answers. “For simplicity’s sake. Think of it as the both of us learning _free will_ from the humans, yeah? Think I was the first to pick it up, but Aziraphale was… always different, as well.” His mouth quirked in a smile very unlike the ones he’d flashed Xaphan. It hadn’t been love at first sight for nothing.

“No, no, no. Granted, Aziraphale is pretty cool, but… You set out to corrupt an angel, but he somehow purified you as well, is that it?” Xaphan fisted a hand into their hair. “Is this how you survived your trial?”

Crowley had to chuckle. “Heh, no. We didn’t change eachother. Other way around, really. We accepted eachother just the way we were, that’s my whole point. You ought to try accepting things as they are sometime.”

The other demon was fuming. “The way I am,” they gnashed, “and the thing I want, is to burn this petty Creation to the ground and cast its ashes to the stars.”

Crowley’s pupils narrowed into slits, his mouth to a thin line. “Alright. I see I’m wasted on you.” He turned around, paused. “Might as well get wasted myself. I’m going for a drink.”

“Suit yourself, Serpent.”

“Doing angelic jobs?!” Xaphan’s lower downs screeched through their stolen, broken headphones just a little later, voices laced with static despite the frayed chord not leading anywhere. “That’s how a demon becomes immune to holy water?!” A fuming pause. “We’re not sure that’d be worth gaining the advantage.”

“Agreed, Lords.” Xaphan shivered, although not entirely out of disgust; the homeless shelter didn’t have great insulation. “On the other hand, humanity being behind the things Crowley said he did might mean this world has some demonic potential in and of itself that we just didn’t see before.”

“That might be worth looking into. Continue your work, Xaphan.”

“I got you your answer,” the demon protested. “We agreed my fire would be returned to me.”

“We’ll need more confirmation,” the static crackled. “This is not something to be taken lightly. Continue your work.” And with a last hiss, the headphones fell silent. Xaphan tore them from their head and flung them into the nearest wall with a growl of frustration.

Something yelped in response. The demon looked back, looked closer. As they shivered again, they spotted an equally shivery stray dog in the corner of the room, dirty and pathetic and cold.

Something shifted in their eyes. Without looking, they raked a suddenly clawed hand through their mattress, then held their stolen lighter to the exposed fluff. They got up as smoke rose to the ceiling and flickering flames warmed the room. They walked away as the flames rose higher. They didn’t smile as they sauntered out the door chased by blaring sirens, but they could still feel the warmth on their back, and so could the little mutt trotting by their side.

They met in Mr. Fogg’s Tavern, a pub pretty much exactly in between the British Museum and Parliament, because of course they did. Crowley spied the back of a tan coat as soon as he walked in, perked up from his annoyed slouch and slid into the chair closest to his angel at once. “Hey, good-looking. Come here often?”

Aziraphale looked up, startled, but his face instantly crinkled in a smile as he saw who was hitting on him. “Oh, maybe I should. The clientele is rather charming, I have to say.” He waved over a waiter. Crowley ordered himself a cider to match Aziraphale’s. “It’s good to see you back in one piece, dearest. How’d it go?”

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “Not getting anywhere.”

“Quite the same for me and Nithael, I’m afraid. He’s… well, he’s obsessed with perfection and purity. He just won’t hear what I have to say.”

“Xaphan seems obsessed with destruction and getting the entire world to match their… ash aesthetic. Ashthetic?” Crowley stared into the middle distance for a moment, but was snapped out of it as his drink arrived. “But I do think there’s more to them. Probably to Nithael, too. Jus’ don’t know how to bring it _out…_ ”

“Well, there was more to us,” Aziraphale reasoned. “And it was brought out in us.”

Crowley froze mid-sip. Over his dark glasses, yellow eyes crept towards the angel. “Hey.”

“Hey?”

“Hey, what’s the thing that did it for us?” Crowley put his glass down, leaning across the table. “Not more of the same, right? Not more of Heaven for you. Not more of Hell for me.”

“You mean…”

“Oh, I hate saying it. And just any angel probably wouldn’t cut it. But, no offense, but you’re a rather… unangelic angel, by Heaven’s standards.”

Aziraphale smirked, touched by what would’ve been taken a very different way just a few short years ago. “No offense whatsoever taken, darling.”

“I guess what I’m saying is. Well.”

“You’re saying an improper angel might resonate with Xaphan better than an improper demon. And the other way around for Nithael. The very same way it did for us.”

Crowley slipped his glasses down for a second, properly looking his husband in the eye. “You did bring out the best in me.”

“And you in me, beyond a doubt.” Aziraphale kissed him. Crowley gave a real smile, one that reached his eyes, just before covering them up again. “And hey, we’ve got something going for us already. Xaphan thinks you’re cool.”

Aziraphale brought a hand to his breast. “Why on Earth…? Well, hum. Obviously I am. It’s just gone terribly underappreciated so far.”

Crowley found his smile had become quite unbearable to the corners of his mouth, serpentine though they might be. “You’ll get to ask them yourself, angel.”

“I suppose I’ll have to think of something. A place to illustrate my point. A point, at all.” Aziraphale finished his drink. “I’m terribly sorry, but I believe I’ll have to go.”

“Yeah, me too.” Crowley pecked him on the cheek. “Soon our thinking spots will be in the same place, eh?”

“Cannot wait, darling.”

Crowley spent the rest of the afternoon coiled around the branches of his apple tree. He’d been still and lost in thought for so long that everything before his unblinking eyes had gone blurry – but then it all suddenly snapped into focus, and he found he didn’t even have to look beyond leaves and flowers at all. He took a deep breath that moved down the length of his body, and took a good long look at his plants, a hint of finality to it.

Aziraphale spent the day in his shop, pacing between boxes and half-stocked shelves, pulling one or multiple books off them from time to time if only to have something heavy and comforting to hold. None of them appeared to bring him any answers – until he spotted one, on its side on the bottom of a bottom shelf, and his halo almost audibly dinged on. He carried it to his still-intact desk, flipped through its yellow pages, and dialed one of the numbers he found there. After a conversation and an agreement, he dialed another number, one he didn’t have to look up. “I’ve got my idea, darling.”

“So do I.”

“Wonderful. Let’s do the Ritz?”

A staticky chuckle through the line. “Oh, I’d say we earned that much. Meet you at nine precisely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 And at least one demon; Crowley had gotten a bit carried away in those days, resulting in an amount of snakes in Egyptian culture and religion that bordered on silly. [return to text]


	4. Flower and Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I really wanted to upload a chapter every week, but my own move to a different city and the renovations that go with it ate up more and more days. Only fitting, really. I'm taking it a little easier now, also seeing as work will start again next week. Still, I'll be working on the story as much as I can, writing is still my favorite pastime ^^

Crowley’s plant room was lush and gorgeous.

It was more of a garden than an indoor room by this point; the air was humid and fragrant, filled with a golden haze of pollen and sunlight that didn’t quite match the dreary Mayfair view outside. Leaves rustled amongst themselves; light and dark, great and small. If you strained your ears, you could almost hear birdsong and the buzzing of insects, or at least the silences where they ought to go. Crowley had done a fairly good job of inviting the ur-concept of a Garden into this room.

Before Armageddon hadn’t happened, the hall had been barren save for almost military ranks of uniform foliage, but now there was far more variation. Verdant ranks crowded eachother along the walls, hanging pots full of trailing vines practically covered the ceiling, and at the heart of it all was the flowering, fruit-bearing apple tree on its very own patch of vibrant grass.

One thing hadn’t changed since the world had started over anew, though. The plants were still as terrified as they’d always been.

The apple tree was the one exception; smug and brave enough to withstand Crowley’s threats and razor-sharp looks, and for some reason it never actually seemed to react to the disappearance of its peers unlucky enough to disappoint the demon. It wasn’t as if it could do no wrong; Crowley had been rather peeved to see it all grown up one day, as he’d been going for a bonsai replica of the original Tree. The other plants were perplexed every time it got away with misbehaving. It was as though the apple tree knew something they could only guess at.

When the garden felt Crowley approach beyond the entrance doors at the end of the hall, the plants all collectively tensed up. As they sensed there was an angel accompanying him, they relaxed again, somewhat; Aziraphale was always a reliable buffer against Crowley’s wrath. Then they sensed something was off. They’d never met this angel before.

Crowley unlocked his front door, inviting Nithael into his home. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Thank you for having me,” the Principality in blue replied, his eyes wandering through the room but his mind still elsewhere. “Are you certain about this? Aren’t you concerned about one of Heaven’s ranks knowing your address?”

Crowley smirked. “I told you, I’ll soon be moved out completely.” The plants were pretty much the last thing he’d be transferring; most furniture, all his statues and stolen artifacts had already been taken care of[1]. “And besides, what’s Heaven gonna do?”

Nithael gave a weak chuckle. “Ha, yes. You do have a point.” He looked off to the side. “So these are your plants… you did tell me you had botanical experience back when I ran the flower shop.”

“Which I presume you’ll be doing once again, soon? Soon as the bookshop will be totally dismantled, that is.” Crowley felt a small sting at that prospect; he’d absolutely miss the shop, but it’d be a pleasant day in Hell before he’d forget the utter joy on his husband’s face at the thought of having a library in the South Downs.

“Yes, I suppose I’ll be doing what I do best. The shop’s layout will lend itself well to it.”

They stepped in between the plants, Crowley more or less leading Nithael until his garden enveloped them completely. “What you do best, huh,” the demon mused. “Flowers, cut and offered up. Little bits of perfection. Created and cultivated to be exactly that.”

“I suppose. I enjoyed fashioning them back in the Garden, I enjoy working with them now.” Nithael’s eyes wandered between leaf and vine, the apple tree’s roots vanishing into the grass, its gleaming fruits.

“What do you see?” Crowley asked, his voice hardly above the insidious hiss he’d used on Eve that fine morning.

Nithael couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. “I see… something that looks an awful lot like Eden. Very impressive…”

Crowley was loath to break the spell, but he’d brought Nithael here with a singular goal. Besides, it was time he’d admitted it to himself, as well as the angel. “No. It’s not perfection you’re looking at.”

Nithael jolted, turning back to him. “It’s not?” He blinked. “Well, obviously. It’s but a replica, created with worldly…”

“You’re looking at plants that do more than just bloom and look pretty,” Crowley cut him off. He’d been more than a little infuriated with the hard time Nithael had given Aziraphale. He’d put this in words the Principality couldn’t twist around. “You know what flowers are for? In all your time with them, d’you ever take the time to actually figure them out?”

“I…”

To be fair, this subject hadn’t always been Crowley’s forté, either. He inwardly cringed as he recalled the talk he and Aziraphale had had, back when he’d wondered where all the unicorns had gone and the angel had informed him there had, in fact, been a reason Noah had insisted on bringing two of every animal aboard the Ark. It’d taken him even longer to understand the process for plants. When he’d started gardening, that’d soon changed. By now, he was even unashamed to admit he owned a few books on the matter. “It’s not just about their looks, you know. I’m sure insects weren’t your department, She had a habit of divvying everything up and letting everyone find out for themselves how it all connected, and of course Heaven wasn’t actually _interested_ in any of _that_ , not any more than Hell – but take it from someone with experience,” Crowley swerved past Nithael and towards the apple tree for emphasis, “flowers turn to fruit. And fruit’s not just for eating, it’s for setting seed and, y’know, making more plants. All these little steps interlocking like clockwork, and the flowers you like to focus on, that Heaven seems to think are the only _worthwhile_ bit, are just one part of it.” He leaned back against the tree. “I trust you understand we’re not just talking about plants anymore?”

Nithael’s eyes had gone wide, and Crowley could almost see the words trainwrecking up his throat, a mess of righteous anger and moral holier-than-thouing and indignation – but he wouldn’t be himself if he couldn’t see the metaphorical tracks of understanding and shame they’d rolled in on. He’d been able to appreciate _those_ in Aziraphale for nigh on six thousand years. “You see people the same way,” he added, driving it home in a way the angel wouldn’t be able to shake. “You see this blasted planet the same damn way. Perfection or bust. Flowers or nothing in your pretty crystal vase.” He pushed himself away from the tree with one fluid motion. “No matter if She intended there to be more between Heaven and Hell or not.”

Nithael stuttered out a few half-formed words, giving up on all of them before permitting them to leave his mouth. He looked around, bewildered, then down at his own hands, then closed them into tight fists. He shut his eyes just as tightly, briefly shaking his head. “No, I – you – She didn’t –”

Crowley crept around him, keeping a close eye out. He didn’t want the angel short-circuiting on him. It wasn’t entirely _kind_ of him to force this realization, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to succeed his way.

“But you – you told me you _scream_ at yours,” Nithael choked out at last. “You threaten them, you _force_ them into perfection, you dispose of them if they fail you. Who are you to lecture me on the contrary? Who are you to tell me that’s somehow the better way?”

Crowley gave a crooked smile, just this side of painful. “Yeah, you know what? It’s about time we addressed that.” He looked around. He took off his glasses, revealing an expression the plants had never seen directed at them before. “Listen up, you lot.” The garden gave a jolt, a unanimous wave of rustling passing down the length of the room, abruptly dying down only as Crowley spoke again.

“Yes, I’ve had my own issues with perfectionism,” he started, reluctantly grinding out the words. “Could’ve dealt with them better, I s’pose. In my defense, it’s a coping mechanism.” The demon spread his hands, addressing the room at large. “Never had anything to do with you guys.”

“You were cast out for being imperfect,” Nithael realized. “And that never left you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Trauma. Demons can have trauma?” Surprise, incredulity, and _there_ , too early for Nithael to really identify but all too clear to Crowley, the buds of sorrow. The demon steeled himself. “Well, let’s say I wasn’t _trying_ to have everything I’d ever known ripped from me and be grilled to a fine medium-rare. Anyway.” He carried on before Nithael could say anything more. “I know what I told you. I know what I told these guys in no uncertain terms all these years. But.” He let out a soft growl, rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve never actually killed any of them. Not one, not ever.”

Another jolt coursed through the room, and a rustling awoke from its depths; not a trembling in fear, but something more akin to a confused murmur, like a full stadium seeing a poet stepping onto the field reserved for a rugby match.

“I’ve, uh, spent quite a bit of energy miracling underperformers out of here, to a better place. An _actual_ better place. Sometimes the other side of the world depending on species. The garbage disposal sound is – it’s just a recording. So. There you have it.” Crowley’s jaw tensed as he fell silent and waited. He was fairly sure this’d be the end of his garden; with this out in the open, all his plants were sure to develop leaf spots, limp stems and mineral deficiencies just to get out as soon as possible. He found he couldn’t bear to keep looking, and let his gaze drift to the window of his office on the far side of the room. “Go on, would you.”

Then Nithael gave a soft gasp. “Crowley.”

The demon looked back.

The garden was blooming.

Flowers were opening before his eyes, from the gaudiest, most brightly coloured trumpets to the most subtle off-green little beads. New leaves unfurled, tender and fresh, glittering with dew. The very air felt like crystal to breathe and like magic to behold, as photosynthesis had suddenly kicked into overdrive all around.

There was a pale golden haze of pollen around the apple tree. Somehow, it appeared more smug than it’d ever been.

“I’ll be,” Nithael whispered.

Crowley gave a rare blink. He had to. There’d been something in his eye. _Must’ve been the pollen._ “I’ll be damned.”

“Crowley, what does this mean?” The angel’s voice was so fragile. It was clear he already knew. Still, Crowley felt he had to spell it out, as much for his own sake as for Nithael’s. “It means,” he heard himself say, “that free will is a better motivator than the threat of force.” He stepped forward to his plants, drawn in like a magnet, feeling like some great weight had been lifted; off him, off the entire room, off his worldview. He reached out, and for the first time leaves didn’t tense up or tremble at his touch. He couldn’t describe how it felt.

“It means love is a better motivator than fear,” he then heard behind him, in a voice so quiet he doubted Nithael could quite hear himself. “And one can do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and therefore also the other way around, and… but… You don’t understand, I’m supposed to follow the _rules_ …”

“Why?” Crowley asked, not turning around. He didn’t stop the smile as it crept onto his face. It wasn’t as if he could. He wasn’t about to share it with Nithael yet, however.

A sharp intake of breath behind him. “I can feel your love, a demon’s love. I can feel theirs. How can something this imperfect feel so…”

“I told you,” the demon chuckled. “It’s not about the flower. It’s about the whole plant.” He nodded to himself, to the garden, to the world. “Leaf spots and all.” He found it in himself to turn around and face Nithael, no matter what he looked like right now. “Be it plant, human or those of angel stock.”

The angel looked like he’d just survived a hurricane, all tense and frazzled in his pristine but suddenly seemingly ill-fitting suit. “What is the purpose of angelic field agents if not to encourage perfection on Earth?” he asked, visibly dreading the answer.

Crowley gave a loose, uncaring shrug. “Dunno. I only know what I ended up learning because of it.”

“And what is that?” Nithael managed, despairing.

“Free will, feathers. Not striving to be a model demon, or angel, but just what _I_ wanna be. The way humans do, I guess. Might as well enjoy myself up here.”

Nithael clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, took a deep breath. “Is _that_ how you survived the holy water, then? You became more like a human?”

Crowley gave the angel a sideways look. “…What?”

Nithael opened his mouth, made to speak but found he couldn’t, shame burning in his throat. He desperately averted his gaze, let it travel through the room, visibly reeling. The plants bloomed and bloomed. The apple tree was laden with fruit, laden with truth. Nithael’s eyes lingered on it, filled with something like yearning. His gaze flicked Up for the briefest moment. “Nobody ever checks the observation files,” he murmured, so quietly Crowley had to strain to hear.

“What’s that?”

“I never came here to learn.” Nithael’s eyes were still averted, and just as well. “Head Office sent me down with another mission.”

“Yeah?”

“I just pretended to want to learn, at first. I was trying to get closer to you and Aziraphale in order to deliver the truth of your immunity to Heaven. So they might destroy you after all. I wasn’t trying to learn, but…”

“But you ended up learning anyway.” Crowley folded his arms. He couldn’t say he was shocked, or even surprised. Well, not at Heaven’s schemes. Maybe a little at Nithael’s admission of them. “And _because_ you learned, you no longer want to deliver that truth.” _No more need for the masquerade. Time to be ourselves._

“I never _wanted_ to. But now I don’t think I _will_ , either.”

Crowley gestured at his plants, feeling something inside him swell with pride. “Maybe it’s time to let go of that need for perfection and break some rules, eh? Look at Aziraphale. You said it yourself, no one’s afraid of Falling anymore. They can’t _make_ you do anything.”

 _They’re wrong. They treated us wrong. They’ll treat_ you _wrong._

_No need to admit it. Realizing it is enough._

Nithael’s face crumpled, and he blindly reached behind him for support. He ended up leaning haphazardly against the stem of a large ficus. Then, to his own visible surprise, he huffed out a little laugh. Then he gasped. Then he slid down the ficus and all but collapsed to the floor.

Crowley strolled over and sat down next to him, long legs sprawling out. Together, they stared up through pollen and sunlight, up at leaves and flowers, incredulous and awed. Without averting his smiling eyes, Crowley reached out a hand and patted Nithael’s knee. “There, there. You’ll get used to it.”

“I must applaud you, Serpent.”

“Ha. Why’s that?”

Nithael closed his eyes, chuckling. “You didn’t even need me to bite the apple, this time.”

The doorbell tinkled. Aziraphale looked up from Georgette Heyer’s _The Black Moth_ , one of the few books he hadn’t had the heart to pack up yet. The bookshop proper was all but empty, and the bell had left a slightly unpleasant echo – but the back room was still furnished, desk, sofa and well-worn chairs and all.

“…Aziraphale? You in here?”

The angel made his way over to the entrance. “I’ll be right on over! Pardon me, got a bit lost in –” He halted. Xaphan’s spindly silhouette was outlined against the light from outside, but they weren’t alone. “Oh, I didn’t realize you’d made a friend!” Aziraphale delighted, beaming at the little dog by their side. It was a muddy off-brown, with coarse hair and a walrus-like moustache for a muzzle. Aziraphale reckoned it was mostly Yorkshire terrier, but couldn’t guess at what else had gotten mixed in. He fiddled with his fingers. Normally he wouldn’t abide dogs in his shop, but considering most books were already gone, and especially considering the way Xaphan looked at the little thing…

“This is Teeth,” said the demon, matter-of-factly.

“…What a, um, lovely name?”

“It’s short for Unending Torment and the Gnashing of Teeth.” Xaphan picked up their apparent pet and moved past Aziraphale. “I gathered you’re supposed to name them something you like, but it got a bit bothersome when calling her.”

The angel moved after his guest. “So, you like torment, then? Pain?” he ventured. “I’m… I’m sure that’s an asset considering the practices of your office –”

Xaphan turned. “I like pain in _others._ ” The look in their faceted eyes was beyond anything Aziraphale could put a name to. Then they cracked a small smile, holding out Teeth. “You can pet her if you want.”

The angel scratched the dog behind the ear. Teeth sniffed his hand and licked it. There was a bright glitter to the little creature’s eye; Aziraphale wondered about the shift of Dog’s allegiances under Adam’s care and what that’d mean for Teeth’s prospects.

“You’ve almost packed up,” Xaphan observed as Aziraphale led them to the back room. “Pity, I liked it in here. Nice and dim, good amount of clutter.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.” Aziraphale smiled; it wasn’t often his home and interests were appreciated by anyone from Above or Below. He didn’t quite let his guard down yet, however. “Can I offer you anything? Something to drink?”

“No, thanks. Just water for Teeth. She already ate this morning.”

“Alright. Take a seat, take a seat. I’ll be right with you.” The angel slipped into the kitchenette, taking a moment to miracle himself some tea and gather his wits. Xaphan valued a living, earthly creature, enough to keep in mind to feed her. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he muttered to himself.

As the tea settled, he straightened his cufflinks, his bowtie, and touched a hand to the black ring on his left hand, grounding himself. As he emerged again, it was with the utmost British calm and resolve. He set down the water and tea and settled into his favorite chair, as cushy and comfortable as he was himself. Xaphan was seated across from him, looking very uneasy and out of place, long legs crossed.

The demon glanced at the foot of Aziraphale’s chair. The angel smiled to himself. The long rectangular box resting there hadn’t gone unnoticed, of course. “I’ve had to make a few phonecalls to obtain this,” he remarked, “but it came in just this morning, just in time.” He steepled his fingers. “Now. Do tell me if I offend you in any way, but… do you have any memory of what you used to do Before?”

Xaphan fished into their pocket and took out a lighter, almost unconsciously flicking it on and off. Aziraphale was very glad Crowley wasn’t with them today, even if the bookshop was considerably less flammable than before. “No,” they replied at length. “I just know I chose fire and destruction as I Fell – I wanted to set Heaven ablaze as I went. Probably did something with holy fire, as there has to be a reason I grabbed hold of as much of it as I could and… well, I must’ve held on as tight as possible, ‘cause it Fell with me.” They bared their teeth in a too-wide grin. “You heard I was the original creator of hellfire, right?”

Aziraphale gave a nod. “Very impressive.”

“C’mon, you’ve gotta hate me for it. It’s the only thing that can kill an angel. Well, before _you_ , that is.” The demon leant forward in their seat, barely veiled fascination in their eyes. “How’d that happen, anyway?”

Aziraphale cocked his head, consciously ignoring the latter question. “…I don’t think I hate anyone. Anymore. It’s an awful thing to spend one’s energy on.”

Xaphan’s grin froze, as did their finger on the lighter. A faint acrid smell drifted through the shop as the little flame burned on, scorching their flesh. “Not even Upstairs for trying to off you for good? Downstairs for trying to fizzle your precious Serpent?” Their eyes flicked Up. “God, for the Fall? You do _love_ your demon, don’t you?”

Aziraphale was quiet for a little bit, feeling for all the world like he was pondering his next move in a game of chess against an opponent playing a wholly different game, one where losing pieces went up in flame instantly. “I Fell, you know,” he then uttered, quietly. “A little bit. Stumbled down a few steps of the stairway, as it were.”

Now Xaphan cocked their head, bird-like. “Come again?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose I’m the only angel that ever happened to. Head Office certainly wouldn’t let me forget. But then again, I suppose I’m also the only angel to instantly fail at their first-ever duty.”

“You guarded the _apple tree_ ,” Xaphan realized, flicking off the lighter. “Oh, that’s rich. _Crowley_ was the one –”

“– Crowley would not have intended to harm me in any way, even then. He’s never let himself forget it either. He really does love me, you know, and my ‘Fall’ cost me a position closer to Her and two of my wings. I used to be a Cherub.”

“That is _rich,_ ” the demon repeated. They were grinning again. Aziraphale didn’t let himself be affected by it, even though it was in response to an old, still-aching hurt he’d only ever shared with Crowley. He knew a mask when he saw one, after all. He steepled his fingers once again, and waited.

“…Who did it to you?”

“Gabriel himself.”

Something flared in the demon’s eyes. “That _wanker._ ”

The angel quirked the smallest smile. “Quite.”

“A Cherub, eh?” Xaphan shifted their weight. “Weren’t those the most fiery Order? Flaming aura, flaming – oh, but you _lost_ your flaming sword, didn’t you? They let you keep it, and still you lost it?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiled, reminded of another demon needling him about this very same thing. _Lost it already, have you?_ “I see that story even made its way to Hell. I’m afraid the game of telephone distorted it somewhat, however. I did not _lose_ my sword, you see. I gave it away. And I’ve always known where it was.” He glanced down. “Which brings us to the telephone calls I made, and the package the good people of the delivery service brought my way to borrow for a little while, once more.” He took the package into his lap, fiddled for a moment, then slid out what’d been inside.

Xaphan backed away as the angel took it in hand with an experienced grip, and it flamed like a bar of magnesium. _Whoomph._

“You… you gonna smite me, Principality?” They hesitated, grinning uneasily. “…Cherub?”

Aziraphale was still smiling. “Do you think I would?”

“You tell me, you’re the one with the extinction fire sword.” Xaphan narrowed their eyes against its glare. “But hang on a minute, that could be hellfire. You’re the hellfire angel. The most fiery one out of the two of us.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Exactly. It _could_ be.”

“Which is it? Holy? Hellish?” The demon shuddered. “Mixture of both? Say it ain’t so.”

“You can’t tell, can you?” The angel turned the flickering blade over in both hands, unhurt by its tongues of flame. It was a part of him, still. It’d never harm him, nor so much as a thread of the chair he sat in. “You should know the difference is quite trivial. The only thing that matters is that I’ve only ever used this weapon to defend, I would again, and nothing will ever change that.”

“Fire is destruction,” Xaphan countered, narrow eyes reflecting only the flames. “It’s the simplest thing in the world.” They pushed themself off, rising. “And if you were tainted enough not to be touched by hellfire, that _can’t_ be holy fire around your sword. Which means that weapon can only be used to destroy.”

“Whatever makes you think that?”

“Fire is destruction, hellfire doubly so. _Demons_ are destruction, Principality, the undoing of God’s precious Creation.” Xaphan straightened out to their full length, bearing down on Aziraphale from across the coffee table. Somewhere down by their chair, Teeth let out a small yelp, cowering down. “It’s all we are, all we’ll ever _be_ –”

“You seem so set on that idea.” Aziraphale sipped his tea, more than aware this was no longer just about the sword or, really, the fire. He nodded at the dog. “What about that little one?”

The demon looked back, the glow instantly leaving their eyes. “Teeth – no, I –”

“Tell you what,” said Aziraphale. “Come closer. Bring your lighter. That’s it.” He held out his flaming sword, in a manner that held no threat. “Compare the two, now. Tell me what you see.”

Xaphan held the little earthly flame as close to the God-given blade as they dared. They squinted. Then they frowned. “That’s… not that different at all.”

“You couldn’t tell the difference between holy fire and hellfire. Now you see there’s no difference with earthly fire either.” The angel gave the demon a shrewd look. “Do you follow? They all have the same _potential._ ”

“This is… not just about fire, is it.”

“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale smiled at the blade. “Hellfire, holy fire, regular fire. They all hold the potential of destruction, of warmth, of protection, and more. And the choice could be a free one, if one were willing to make it.”

Xaphan stared. The angel could see they were in fact following, to their own horror. Spoken in the language of flame, illustrated by two sources of actual fire, the line of reasoning was very hard to deny for the Bringer of the Burning Sky. Demons, angels, humans – one’s nature might not define half as much as they’d always believed.

“But my fire has gone,” Xaphan then ground out. “I’m not getting it back, I – you don’t get it, destruction was all I was good for and now I can’t do that _one_ thing –”

“You were right,” the angel interrupted them. “The fire I spoke of was metaphorical, I do get carried away in allegories sometimes. When I say fire holds more potential than that for destruction alone, I’m not saying actual fire need be involved.” He glanced at Xaphan’s ashy hands, now doing a great deal of snowing onto the carpet and leaving flaky impressions on their trousers. “Say, would you mind following for a moment? Um, physically, I mean.” He rose, primly, without waiting for a reply, but resolutely striding into the shop and tugging aside the circular carpet that still lay at the heart of it. Considering what’d once been beneath it, he wasn’t sure he wanted to move it into the cottage at all. There was no elaborate Enochian circle underneath this time, however, only bare wood. “Crowley tells me you’re fond of demonic sigils. Why don’t you try your hand at some here?”

“My… hand?” Xaphan studied their fingers. “You mean drawing? With these?”

“If you’d like.” Aziraphale made an inviting gesture. “Go on, see if you can make a dent in two hundred years of angelic occupation. It’s only fair if Nithael has a few shadows to chase out when he moves in, no?”

The demon gave an uneasy grin. “Have to say I like that line of thinking.” They crouched down, trailed long fingers across the floorboards. Pale lines lingered after their touch, curving into eachother into an elaborate design. Aziraphale curiously studied it. “What’s this one, if I may ask?”

“ _Phaleg_ , it brings discontent. Downstairs urged me to tone down my… usual urges and grab from another bag.” Xaphan grinned up at the angel. “Still, it might give Nithael something to do.” They hummed to themselves as they launched into a second sigil, its lines and curves blooming into displays of geometric perfection. “And this beauty is _Rauym_ , bringer of filth…”

“Do forgive me, but you’re awfully good at this. Artistic, even. Are demons naturally inclined to be?”

The demon abruptly looked up, and Aziraphale had to steady himself not to take a step back. Even without hellfire, Xaphan had a strong presence and even stronger flares of emotion. “What the _Heaven_ makes you say that?”

The angel folded his hands behind his back for a discreet bout of fidgeting, briefly looking off to the side. “Well, Crowley picked up painting after he retired, and he’s very good, you know. The humans featured his works in the National Portrait Gallery, and he wasn’t even trying to be noticed!” A smile crept onto his face as he recalled it; he’d been and still was so awfully proud. “And now you seem to be naturally talented as well –”

At once, Xaphan boiled to their feet and into Aziraphale’s face. “Demons don’t create,” they bit out. “This isn’t _creating_ , these are sigils of defilement, destruction –”

“But you’re _painting_ them, dear. That’s an act of creation.” The angel carefully stood his ground. He’d held his own against Crowley’s outbursts over the millennia, and this really wasn’t all that different. He figured he ought to backpedal a little bit seeing Xaphan’s expression, however. He’d swallowed his tongue for his husband numerous times, too. “But I suppose you’d know best. Would you draw a few more? They’re very intriguing.”

The demon warily returned to their impromptu canvas, experimenting with their newly discovered mode of expression. Soon, most of the floor was covered in increasingly nonchalantly drawn sigils, ones to instill obsession, impatience, the rusting of metals, the incessant opening of locks. “I’d draw these in the air in hellfire,” Xaphan spoke, quietly. “They’d weave themselves into the world so much easier. But I think I’m getting the hang of this, too.”

“They’re very lovely.”

“It’s… nice, using the ash like this. Didn’t think it’d be good for anything.” The demon looked down at their various sigils, still on their knees on the floorboards. Then they reached out again, trailing their fingers around and between the geometric designs, varying the pressure as they went, varying the width of the lines by adding and removing fingers from the drawing. Watching, Aziraphale began to beam.

Without saying anything, rendering the moment as fragile as a soap bubble, Xaphan was drawing twisting tongues of flame, monochrome but with a degree of vivid realism that stole the angel’s breath. He recognized the care and attention to detail Crowley had given to his many-hued starscapes. He dared not speak as the demon wreathed the sigils in ashy flame. This moment was one very easily shattered, he knew.

A heartbeat later, he was startled as Xaphan spoke themself. “I guess it only makes sense, doesn’t it? My first act as a demon was one of creation. And now I’m doing it again. Creating hellfire.”

Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back, very carefully choosing his next words. “I won’t say you were meant for it,” he started. “But there can be a certain… grace in _not_ doing what one was meant for.” He glanced back at his sword, not discarded but definitely _separate_ , still in the back room.

“I won’t lie, I am enjoying this,” Xaphan spoke in a low voice. Leaning forward ever so slightly to look over the demon’s shoulder, Aziraphale barely held back a gasp seeing Teeth’s crumpled little face rendered in ash, a near-perfect replica. “And it’s terrifying,” Xaphan went on. “As terrifying as she is.”

“Teeth… terrifies you?” the angel ventured, puzzled.

“Yes, she does.” The demon looked back. “You get it, you were created as a burning soldier. Little things, mortal things, they’re _horrible._ ”

“Horribly fragile,” Aziraphale understood. “Caring for something, protecting something, is scarier than destroying it.”

Xaphan only nodded, their head low over their drawings. Aziraphale wondered how close they were to swiping a hand through the ash, erasing their art, or even lashing a claw through the floorboards. He didn’t move a muscle, still; not even as he heard a little sound approaching from the back room. “I would say you’ve got a knack for it, though.”

“How so?” the demon grumbled.

“Well.” The angel smiled as Teeth plopped down next to her master, padding in a circle and nestling close. “You appear to be doing just fine with her.”

Xaphan hesitantly lifted a hand, decidedly clawless and non-threatening, and pet their dog with the wonder of an astronaut encountering extraterrestrial life. “I, uh. Did not expect an angel to do this for me.”

“I’ve done nothing in particular, dear. This was all you.” Aziraphale paused, hands still folded. “I did not expect the Bringer of the Burning Sky to see the value in creation and mortal life so soon, if at all. Your true form is a bombardier beetle, correct?”

Xaphan looked back over their hunched shoulder, their eyes gone dark, their skin having acquired a faint orange hue, less faint by the moment. The back of their jacket subtly split, going from grey to an oily midnight blue, yellow eyespots forming. They didn’t speak save for a brief rustle of shielded wings, but it was answer enough for Aziraphale. “I’ve read up on those. Some might say they were designed for destruction. I’d understand if this was difficult for you. I sense your sincerity, you know. You do love her. You do love your art. But there’s a hesitation to it. You’re not telling me everything.”

“I _am_ a demon,” they chuckled, joylessly.

“There is no more need for masquerading, dear. Not here.”

“They always know.”

“Then why do they insist you report to them?”

Xaphan blinked, out-of-place eyelids scraping over dark facets. “I –”

“Why were you really sent here? Why didn’t Head Office simply wait until we had moved out before sending you in? You _and_ Nithael, I am reasonably certain.” Aziraphale cocked his head, nothing but earnest curiosity to his voice and stance. He didn’t say _I can guess, but I want to hear you say it,_ but it was a near thing.

Xaphan’s eyes flicked Down, then closed. Their still-clawless hand tightened in Teeth’s fur. “Both Heaven and Hell are after the truth of how you survived your trials. You and Crowley.”

Aziraphale didn’t speak, only lifting his chin a little, looking out over Xaphan’s head and out the grimy windows.

“They promised me my fire back.”

“Ah.” The angel gave a faint smile. “The fire that was taken from you because you failed your duty on Earth, I presume. Which was to discorporate Crowley and establish a foothold as Hell’s field agent two years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Who was the one that took your fire from you then?”

Xaphan’s mouth twisted in something that both was and wasn’t a smile. “Lord Beelzebub zirself.”

“And I assume it was also Lord Beelzebub who tasked you with this duty now.” As Xaphan nodded, Aziraphale nodded back. “And you were all too eager to please, smiling and nodding exactly the way I used to smile and nod at Gabriel.”

“…Yes.”

The angel finally moved, kneeling down on the floor at Xaphan’s side. As he spoke, he tried to impart all the empathy he felt, all the understanding, everything he’d learned since he’d left Heaven for good, one being who’d had their fire taken to another. “Xaphan, do you really want to play by their rules, venture to please them and win back what was stolen, when they were the ones that did this to you in the first place?”

The demon gritted their teeth, unresponsive. The hand not in Teeth’s fur grew spiny and segmented.

“I’m no expert, but I ascribe to the philosophy that the meaning of existence lies less in doing what someone else wants out of fear, and more in what _you_ want out of love. And it may not mean much from an angel’s mouth, but you’re perfectly lovely without hellfire.”

A raw chuckle escaped Xaphan’s mouth, revealing spindly mouthparts. “Means plenty from the hellfire angel.” A brief pause. “You’re the first to tell me anything like that since Her.”

Aziraphale huffed out a little laugh, even though it was utterly perpendicular to what he felt. “Yes, well.” He glanced Up. “A lot of us have a lot to answer for.”

“A lot of us, too.” Xaphan stood up, offering Aziraphale a hand. “Alright. I hear what you and Crowley are saying.” They fished their lighter from their pocket and flicked it on. “A different kind of fire might be… worth a look.”

“This is Earth,” Aziraphale beamed. “Moreover, this is London. I’m sure there’s a place for you to be who you _really_ want to be to your heart’s content.”

“Ha. Now I’m sure I don’t need to go back Down.”

“How so, dear?”

“I’m listening to and believing an angel.” Xaphan offered Aziraphale a too-wide grin, but a joyous one. “Hell ought to be properly frozen over now.”

They met at the Ritz.

They had plenty to talk about, the four of them. They talked over dinner, as both Nithael and Xaphan experimented with food and drink. Some of it ended up under the table, offered to Teeth (who’d been miraculously allowed into the establishment), but the two of them did end up taking a liking to the vegetarian pithivier and a peculiar orange Georgian Chinuri, respectively.

“I’m so proud of both of you,” Aziraphale beamed at both their successors. “You’ve both come so far. And _Crowley_ , let’s not forget you, being honest with your plants like that…”

“Eh,” the demon grinned, bracing himself against the onslaught of his angel’s smitten joy. “We’ll be sharing that garden soon. Wouldn’t be getting away with yelling at them anymore anyway.”

“Efficient as always, of course, of course,” the angel chuckled.

Nithael quietly marveled at the small decorative bouquet on their table, then the magnificent potted palms all around them in the restaurant. “Perfection may not have been God’s intention,” he uttered. “I might get away with not urging humans towards it, nor… myself.”

“And utter destruction may not be all it’s cracked up to be, either,” Xaphan added. “Well, come to think of it. Eventually there’d be nothing left, and then what’d I be doing?”

“Tell you what,” said Crowley. “Neither of you would’ve held a candle to humanity anyway. They started and stopped Armageddon all by themselves, there’s no topping that.” He sipped his rosé Ange Chuchotant. “That said, what _will_ you be doing?”

Nithael and Xaphan stared at him for a moment, then glanced at eachother. “I think,” the angel in blue started, “I still want to work with plants, but… the _whole_ plant. Not just the flowers. And people, too. Whole people, not just the perfect versions of them. Does that make sense?”

“Bound to be a lot more interesting,” Crowley approved. “Good on you, looking past Head Office’s soul quota.”

“You’ll do just fine in my old shop,” Aziraphale reassured the other angel. “There’s plenty of space, and plenty of natural light… or at least there will be when I move out the bookcases and clear out the cobwebs,” he chuckled, apologetically. He turned to the demon. “And you, Xaphan? I think you’d flourish among humans too – you could be a really great artist, you know –”

“I’d be doing them a favour, though,” the demon growled quietly. “I don’t do that.” He glanced at Crowley. “We’re nuisances, right? We hurt people. I like _making_ things, but having it all be pleasant and inspiring and painless from here on out –”

“Oh, say no more,” Aziraphale beamed, all but physically lighting up as something struck him. He leant into his husband, taking his hand under the table. “Crowley, isn’t Sarah retiring? Sarah Tyson? Wasn’t she looking for someone to take over the parlour?”

Crowley started grinning. “Oh, she’s gonna love this. Yep, that’s definitely worth a shot.”

Xaphan looked between the two of them in puzzlement. “What are you on about?”

Crowley clapped them on the shoulder, still grinning through the cloud of ash this time. “Xaphan, how much do you know about tattooing?”

Having explained a few things on the subject and the parlour on the verge of Mayfair they’d both done their fair share of influencing on, and Xaphan having raised their eyebrows at the thought of artwork that could physically hurt and bring them into contact with lots of humans to include in infernal reports, the four of them returned to Aziraphale’s back room one last time to celebrate a job well done. They opened a long-saved bottle of sweet French Jour-de-Fruit, and even Nithael drank enough of it to find himself rosy-cheeked and unable to stop smiling. If Heaven or Hell were watching, Nithael and Xaphan reasoned, they’d simply tell them this was all to give Crowley and Aziraphale a false sense of security, to get them to leave that much quicker and be done with them. Of course, that was when Crowley lowered his sunglasses and pointedly asked if that wasn’t _actually_ the case. “After all, we know Head Office and their ilk are rather on the nose. Saying that does seem rather suspicious.”

“They are rather on the nose, it’s true,” Nithael admitted. “Let me… let me assuage those fears.” He turned to Aziraphale, tipsy openness on his soft features. “I’ve already told Crowley, but… it’s only fair to tell you too. Heaven didn’t send me to be a field agent. They still wanted to know how you really survived your trial.”

“Hell did the same for me,” Xaphan admitted to Crowley. They flashed Nithael a half-smile. “Our Head Offices really aren’t that different, eh.”

“So it seems.”

“Not surprising in the slightest, either of you,” Crowley chuckled. “I’m just glad you ended up interested in the beans we _actually_ ended up spilling on your attempted dig for that information.”

“You’ve spilled enough. We won’t ask again,” Nithael smiled. “Curious as we are, still. We’ll both simply report our failing and accept our new permanent positions on Earth. Much as you did, I suppose. Although that does leave us with our incomplete missions,” he pondered.

“We’ll both just have to conjure up some excuses from time to time,” Xaphan flapped. “ _Also_ much like they did, yeah?”

Aziraphale fidgeted. Crowley immediately took notice, turning to him and venturing to speak, but the angel beat him to it. “Seeing as both your Head Offices indeed aren’t likely to abandon this… dig, as your missions here were spearheaded by Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub themselves,” he started, not looking up, still fidgeting, “I might as well tell you the truth now. I don’t want you to go about the way we did.” He glanced up at Crowley, who minutely but very vehemently shook his head. Aziraphale took his hand and gave a little squeeze, but didn’t reach out his ethereal essence to brush against the demon’s infernal. “As an angel and demon who met at the Beginning,” he went on, Crowley’s fingers going vice-tight around his own, “we grew ever closer over time. Close enough to ultimately fall in love and link hands, as it were, in this very manner.” He took Crowley’s white-knuckled hand in both of his own, resting it between them. Black, silver-speckled scales rippled across the demon’s skin, this way and that. Leaning forward slightly, Aziraphale briefly flexed his wings, silver streaking through his feathers to match. “Our essences crossed paths. For but a moment, there was no real difference between us, or maybe there never had been. As you say, Heaven and Hell aren’t all that different, and we found angels and demons need not be either. This is how we both survived Head Office’s trials.”

As Nithael and Xaphan gave thoughtful nods, Crowley relaxed all at once, going all but boneless on the sofa. The demon at last reached out to Aziraphale’s essence. _You – you just – Sssatan, talk about technical truths – you really will be the end of me one day, angel –_

 _I can’t just_ lie _to them,_ Aziraphale shot back, primly incensed. _They’re our_ friends, _now._

 _Like that’s ever stopped you before,_ the demon chuckled, leaning against the angel in something like exhaustion.

_Oh, hush – you’ve always known when it was Heaven talking in my stead._

“I guess that checks out,” Xaphan nodded. “That’s very interesting, if – no offense – absolutely disgusting.”

“We previously assumed it was your deeds that shifted your nature, both of you taking on the other’s tasks,” Nithael added. “But, as horrified as their reactions to _that_ report were…”

“…No one Up or Down will want to try _this,_ even if it’d grant them immunity against the other side,” Crowley grinned. “Even if they did, they’d just find something else to bash eachother over the head with, though. You know they will. Not even Heaven is up for actual love.”

Nithael gave a nod. “Regrettably so. I for one will be taking a page from your book,” he smiled at Crowley, admiring and grateful, “and venture to live for something down here, instead of preparing to fight and die for something Up There. I suppose there are plenty of angels occupied with that task, they can spare one from their ranks.”

“It is rather morbid, them still planning their war,” Aziraphale agreed. “I couldn’t be more proud of you, dear fellow.”

“Enough talk,” Xaphan said in a low growl, but there was no threat to it. “Aziraphale, I do like this alcohol stuff, I think, but I’m a simple demon. All I can think of is spitting it through your flaming sword. Tell me, is there still holy fire in there?”

The angel nodded, smiling. “There is.” There was no disapproval in his demeanor, and Xaphan immediately started grinning. “Let me make a plume of it, just this once.”

“Not in here,” Crowley warned. “Won’t have that.”

Aziraphale gave his hand another little squeeze to counter a newly viced grip. “We went up to the roof the night we bought the cottage,” he reminded his demon. “And as we’ll be moving out our last few things shortly and leaving London for good… one last time, darling?”

Crowley relented. “One last time.”

And so it occurred that a demon of hellfire unwittingly spat a plume of wine and purest holy fire into the London night from the roof of soon-to-be-no-more A.Z. Fell & Co., and was so giddy about it they didn’t even notice Crowley keeping his careful distance and Aziraphale willing away any stray sparks from his husband’s vicinity, with a smile as nervous as it was delighted as the fire lit up their faces. It was as good a way of announcing a new era as any; certainly better than ending the world, or a select few lives. As it stood now, an angel and demon had broadened their perspectives outside the box, and found they didn’t much like the inside of said box that much after all. Another angel and demon could now leave their beloved city in new hands, comforted in the knowledge those hands would be as gentle and appreciative as their own had been.

As the fire died away, Aziraphale gingerly took back his flaming sword. “I really ought to send this back,” he chuckled. “It belongs to humanity. Feel free to tell Heaven that, I suppose, Nithael.”

“She gave it to you, and I think you’ve done a fine job using it,” the other Principality smiled back. “Thank you, Aziraphale. And you, Crowley. My time here will be quite interesting because of you, I’m sure.”

“Yes, thank you,” Xaphan nodded. “I think we ought to make a careful report to Head Office now, both of us, but at least now I know what to say and I might even like the outcome.” They briefly looked down at their fingers. “I still think fire would suit me better, but… less groveling at the Dark Council’s feet definitely would, too.”

“Thank you for listening,” Aziraphale beamed. Crowley came up behind him, snaking an arm around him and resting his chin on the angel’s shoulder. “But yeah, you’re right,” the demon drawled. “You ought to bugger off. It’s been a long day for all of us, eh? Lots to do, lots to think about. Lots to sleep off,” he yawned, showing off gleaming fangs.

“Point taken,” Xaphan grinned, giving a brief salute as they stepped back into the shop, quickly followed by Nithael. As the two of them descended the stairs and left the shop, the remaining angel and demon watched them from the roof for a moment, and then slipped into eachother’s arms in a mixture of exhaustion, relief and exhilaration. Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s shoulder, Crowley pressed a lingering kiss to the side of the angel’s face. “We did it.”

“We really did,” the angel uttered, muffled. “One last victory.” He wordlessly unfurled his wings, Crowley answering with his own, as they both withdrew only to come back together in a kiss. In a quiet agreement, both their wings beat in unison, and they slowly rose. Luckily, the night was cloudy.

Only two pairs of eyes lifted to the sky, a moment later. “Look at that,” the Principality in blue remarked. “I can’t remember the last time I stretched _my_ wings.”

“Demons don’t fly,” the spindly demon replied. “No use Down There, anyway.” They quirked a smile. _Anything’s possible now,_ they didn’t say, but they didn’t have to. Nithael was clearly thinking the same.

“See you around, demon.”

“Until next time, feathers.”

They both returned to their own residences; Nithael to his hotel room, Xaphan to a grimy Mayfair rooftop, as the homeless shelter was still a smoking husk. They both contacted their superiors. They both informed their Head Offices of what they’d learned.

“I’ll stick close a little longer but I think this is really it, boss,” Xaphan uttered, openly petting Teeth; Hell didn’t have a visual anyway. Half a dozen blocks away, Nithael piously folded his hands before his chalk circle. “The answers I found were wicked and abominable, and of no use to us whatsoever,” he reported, though he couldn’t keep the warmth from his voice. “Still, we must forgive them, mustn’t we? Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

Halfway through the clouds, another angel and demon found themselves unable to stop smiling, unable to stop glowing, as essences merged and they reveled in the feeling of utter freedom they’d earned for themselves.

“As expected from an incompetent lowlife like you,” Hell’s spokesperson rasped. “Fine, stay there and do whatever it is the office tasks you with next.”

“It’d be my least sincere displeasure, boss.” Xaphan smirked. For once, they were being honest.

High up, Aziraphale and Crowley rested their foreheads together, beaming at one another, then beaming down at the veiled lights of London, their entwined souls ablaze with love and nostalgia. Then they allowed the wind under their nigh-motionless wings to slowly swivel them around, and they clung to eachother as they hovered and both looked to the wide southwestern horizon. They might as well be soaring on nothing but utter happiness and anticipation.

Heaven’s voice heaved a sigh. “You are an inspiration to us all, Nithael,” they drawled, their tone speaking to the contrary. “You are to remain on Earth, bringing that same good influence to humanity.”

“Of course,” the angel smiled. “I’d be honoured.”

And they might not be flying, but the newly Earthbound angel and demon now soared on that same happiness and anticipation, if only for this moment; from here on out, anything was indeed possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Of course, it was impossible for a London businessman, no matter how sleek and stylish, to own an original sketch of the Mona Lisa signed by Da Vinci himself, or other equally priceless artworks and artifacts from all eras of history. So none of the workmen from the moving company had commented on any of them aside from some intellectual admiration and remarks on how one could tell they were obviously fake. [return to text]
> 
> (Yes, this is an elaborate flower shop / tattoo parlor joke, things just fell into place that way and I didn't find myself minding at all :P)


	5. New Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. I'm so sorry for vanishing for so long. I was planning to finish this entire series the way I started it; just me, Aziraphale and Crowley, no uploads until I finished, but life is hammering me so hard I think only an upload will really get me back into gear now. So let's try that tactic; enjoy some more of my sappiness. I do still love these idiots.
> 
> I can probably do an upload a week, let's see if I can finish the final story (halfway there as of now!) in time to keep that up!
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around as long as you have, I love you all.
> 
> (Oh yeah keep in mind this whole story is essentially setup for the final one through development for Nithael and Xaphan / simply sappy stuff I wanted to have a go at before the end, which makes chapters like these feel a bit uneventful to me at least but they do sort of have a point ^^;)

The needle went _dzzzzz_ , not at all unlike the rapid droning of insect wings, and not far from a hidden pair of them either.

It left an impeccable line of ink on thin, slightly wrinkled skin, as the occasional muscle or tendon tensed up beneath it from time to time. The tattooist was absolutely focused, fascinated, the look in their eyes bordering on hungry.

Not that long before that moment, three people – or people-shaped beings – had stepped into Sarah Tyson’s Wildfire Tattoo Collective[1].

One of them had been astonished at the parlour’s name. The other two had exchanged a warm smile and a sharp grin, respectively.

It’d been a quiet day, and they’d been greeted immediately by the establishment’s owner, a spry woman in her late sixties. “Ezra, Anthony!” she exclaimed, matching Crowley’s grin in all but the fangs. “Long time no see, looking sharp as always. Did you finally stop by to have something done? Something matching for the married couple, perhaps, or –” Her eye had fallen on Xaphan, stepping in after the two of them, “– or did you bring me a fresh victim?” Her smile softened in a way that belied her words. “I’m Sarah, pleased to meet you.”

“Xander,” the demon uttered, still getting used to the strange taste of their new human name. “Xander Fanning.”

“What can I do for you, Xander? First time, or are you more experienced?” Sarah’s elbow-length sleeves revealed a tapestry of images on her forearms, some faded, some still vibrant; flowers, mermaids, clouds, abstract shapes.

“Actually, Sarah,” Aziraphale started, still smiling, “we may have brought you a solution for that pesky problem of yours.”

Crowley grimaced. “Still planning to turn this place into a bloody Tesco, are they?” He’d once been proud of his hand in the supermarket chain’s rampant expansion, but now they trampled territory dear to him a little too often. Sarah nodded, mercifully unaware of all this. “As soon as I retire, yep. Nobody likes it, but nobody seems willing or able to do anything about it either.” There was a glint in her eye as she gave Xaphan a thorough once-over. “You want to succeed me and continue the fight for this infernal spot, Xander? Sure you’re up for it? How much experience do you have?”

“In fighting for infernal spots? Plenty,” the demon chuckled. “They don’t call me Xander ‘Fanning the flames’ for nothing.”

“That’s honestly just you,” Crowley remarked, but he was smirking – he did appreciate his fellow demon’s initial name choices.

“Well, that does have a nice ring to it. But how’s your tattooing?” Sarah didn’t wait for an answer. “No, wait. One way to find out.” She strode into the shop, beckoning the three of them along. “Come, come. Show, don’t tell, eh?” She looked back. “Now I’ll have you know I don’t do this for just anyone, but you don’t strike me as just anyone. You’ve got something peculiar about you. I can’t really believe I’m doing this, but… no pain, no gain, eh?” As they came to the cushioned tattooing table, she spryly lifted her leg, rested her foot onto it and pulled up her trouser leg, baring her ankle. Aziraphale tittered, scandalized. “Sarah, how sordid!”

“Ankles, his one weakness aside from a lanky geezer in sunnies,” the tattooist grinned. “See here, Xander. I don’t have a lot of bare spots left, but I never could bring myself to have my ankles done. My clients say that’s the most painful spot, you know, and I’m inclined to believe it. But I suppose I was really saving them for a special occasion, and I really do prefer now over never. Think you could make it count?”

Xaphan curiously studied the offered ankle. Clearly, this was just a single, short-lived, arguably aging and very disposable human. And yet, there was a sense of weight and importance to this offer. They found they didn’t want to mess this up. It was a very novel feeling, and they didn’t quite know what to make of it yet. “What did you have in mind?” they ventured. “It’ll be permanent, so…”

“Oh, I never got that far ahead. What did _you_ have in mind?” The glint in Sarah’s eye was back, and Xaphan immediately took note; to one of Hell’s former finest, there was an unsettling familiarity to that look. “…Is this a test?”

“It _could_ be. Now, give me something.”

“Anything at all,” Aziraphale piped up, having taken a comfortable seat in the very back alongside Crowley. They appeared to be playing cards. Crowley appeared to quickly be swiping a few from the deck. “Draw from memory, perhaps?”

Xaphan pondered for a moment. Demonic sigils went out the window immediately; later perhaps, but not now. Not this woman. “A beetle,” they suggested, going with something they simply couldn’t mess up. “Wreathed in flame.”

“Hmm.” Sarah rubbed her chin. “A bit simple.”

“Anatomically correct, of course, with proper lighting and a shine to it, and a colour gradient for the fire.” They’d mastered such things in something as finicky as ash, they were reasonably sure they could replicate them in flesh and ink.

Sarah didn’t seem convinced, making a show of hemming and hawing. “Still…”

“I could add… coiling smoke, perhaps, and shadows.” This would be harder, and detract from the initial design, but it was ultimately Sarah’s ankle.

“Hmm.”

This went on for a bit, Sarah voicing discontent and Xaphan offering more elaborate and minutely detailed options, growing increasingly frustrated. Eventually, they let out a rasping growl, barely keeping their physical form in check. “This is ridiculous! You ask too much! This will never work!”

“ _Yes,_ ” exclaimed the tattooist, triumphantly. “Exactly!”

The demon blinked barely-human eyes. “…What?”

“If you’re going to be an artist, it will also be your job to talk people _out_ of decisions they’ll come to regret, or ones that are just plain ridiculous or impossible,” Sarah pointed out, poking Xaphan’s chest for emphasis. “Never do a job you don’t agree with, yourself; you have the final say. Now. Your first idea was excellent, and very doable.”

“Really,” the demon said, slowly. “I’d have the final say, eh.” They hesitated; _but their lives are so sort_ and _they ought to do whatever they want with those feeble bodies and their limited time_ were ripe on their tongue, but they were taken aback by their own thoughts for a bit too long to actually voice them. Sarah already shrugged. “If they don’t like your designs, they can go elsewhere.” She hopped up onto the table. “Now, let’s actually see this particular design of yours.”

“Al- alright.” Xaphan took the needle in hand with the practiced ease of any torturer, and went to work. It buzzed like an insect’s wings, and soon everything but Sarah’s skin had fallen away before their eyes. An impeccable line of ink marched its way across it, and the demon stared at the process in absolute fascination, drinking in both the human’s keen, sharp pain and their own artistry.

“It’s a way better base of operations than my flat was,” Crowley remarked over his and Aziraphale’s improvised game of 16th-century Tarocchini, as well as it could be played with modern cards[1]. “They’ll actually be _doing_ something from here.”

“That makes it better than my shop, too,” Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose we can’t fault them for being rather vigorous, still. I’m sure they’ll go native eventually, over time. Remember how we were, darling? Constantly at eachother’s throats doing the good and bad work right up until you finally put a stop to it.”

“The bad old days. Until you finally came ‘round to my side, you mean,” Crowley grinned from behind his fan of cards.

“Our side, dearest. It always was, really.” Aziraphale glanced over at Xaphan, hard at work, utterly focused. Sarah beamed at the angel, giving a thumbs up. Aziraphale turned back, his entire demeanor telling of the fact he was nothing less than chuffed. “Oh, I’m so proud of them.”

Crowley chuckled, barely restraining a grin wide enough to show fang. “I think I’ve finally worked it out. Only makes sense, really.”

“What does?”

“Well, we got married, we’re moving in together,” he reasoned.“The logical next step was a bunch of kids to raise, innit? One angel, one demon – I mean you’re already so very _proud_ of ‘em –”

Aziraphale sputtered, to Crowley’s utter delight and him attempting a second go at cheating while the angel was distracted, but said angel took quick note and swatted the demon’s hand before voicing his hushed outrage. “Good Heavens, it’s a good thing you’re not serious!”

“Yeah,” the demon chuckled, resting his chin in his free hand for a moment and smiling at the celestial being he was about to spend his life with, without any further distractions, thank you very much. “Thank Someone, it really is.”

As Xaphan got settled as an apprentice, second-in-command and then Sarah’s successor-to-be at the Wildfire Collective, Nithael went about setting up his very own New Leaf where Aziraphale’s bookshop had been.

It’d started not as one might expect, with the buying or growing of loads and loads of flourishing plants. No, it’d started with a black Bentley pulling up on Old Compton street, as it had many, many times before, one last time, and a certain demon from Mayfair making a donation from his personal collection.

Not all of Crowley’s plants had been thrilled at the prospect of being relocated to a garden, greenhouse or a new home altogether. Some of them had finally dared to tremble or outright droop at the mention, signaling they’d rather stay in London. Others had taken a liking to the angel that’d visited Crowley’s flat a while back. Some of them simply wanted to get away from Crowley, for which the demon couldn’t fault them (be it after a reflexive but ultimately ineffective bout of glaring; old habits died hard).

The demon slipped out of the car, leaning on its roof as a bright face greeted him through the former bookshop’s unsettlingly spotless windows. Crowley just had time to appreciate the hanging garlands of flowers and ivy framing the entrance before Nithael emerged from between to meet him. The angel looked different, Crowley noted; no longer dressed to the nines in his three-piece suit, although his waistcoat was of the same powder blue. If he hadn’t borne witness to Aziraphale gradually unwinding around him, the demon might’ve been downright shocked at the sight of Nithael’s rolled-up sleeves. The angel’s demeanor seemed to have loosened up right alongside his getup. “Crowley, so good to see you could make it! I can’t thank you enough for getting me started.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley shifted his weight, trying not to let his approval of the angel’s turnaround and gardening skills show too much. “Remind me again what it is you’ll be doing here exactly?”

The angel scooped up a box of potted plants from the backseat, making his way back across the sidewalk as Crowley followed with his own armload. People gave them a wide berth in a show of uncharacteristic politeness. Nithael was already radiating his influence, the shop at its epicenter, in a way Aziraphale had given up on sometime during the 1700s. Crowley smirked as he reckoned the same would befall Nithael eventually, when he’d really realize Heaven couldn’t give a toss. “Well,” the angel started, beaming as they entered, “I figured I ought to honour Aziraphale’s bookshop. I did tell you it’s to be a plant library, yes?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, stepping inside under a familiar tinkling bell, though the rest of the shop couldn’t possibly be less so, “but I was and still am at a loss for whatever the hell that means, Principality.” He looked around, bewildered, as Nithael strode off with the plants. The shop’s wooden floors and paneled walls had been polished to a nigh-painful shine, leaving none of the carefully-built grime or the dust dancing in the muted light – surely the work of a few miracles. In place of bookshelves and other furniture buried under avalanches of books, Nithael had filled the space with cozy tables, comfortable chairs and pastel beanbags. Shelves too spacious for books ringed the entire room and first-floor gallery.

The angel came back from placing Crowley’s plants on some of those shelves, and the demon quickly put down his own armload to move along to the car again, picking up more. “Care to enlighten me?”

“Well, I _am_ going to be offering these plants for sale. But people can also exchange them for their own plants, whatever they want to leave with me, just as you’re doing now!” Nithael gave off so much gung-ho enthusiasm and purpose even Crowley was starting to feel vaguely inspired. “Ah, a library in _that_ sense,” he understood. “Just be prepared to be handed the crummiest, most wilted stuff out there, though. City folk aren’t the best at taking care of plants, generally speaking.”

“Oh, I know! But I’ll be there to restore them when that happens. Not to perfection,” Nithael quickly added, “but to… sustainability, perhaps. And then I’ll offer those to new customers, too. I’m counting on innate human kindness, you see. Aziraphale taught me that.” He halted for a moment. “I think he’s also inspired me to, ah, _rescue_ a few victims from windowsills here and there.”

This brought something of a golden glow to Crowley’s chest, loath as he was to admit it. They’d both taught him so well. “Oh, well. That’s good, then.”

“Angels on Earth might not be strictly needed, but I’ll do what I can while I’m down here. I’m counting on learning a great deal – and maybe I’ll pass some of it on, too.” Nithael arranged a new boxload onto one of his tables, lingering at his chairs and beanbags. “I’m hoping to facilitate some conversation between people as they pick out their plants. Maybe even some with me, as well. I’m hoping to get better at it.”

“Actually talking to humans, eh. And doing some… restoring?” Crowley ventured. “Not to perfection, but to sustainability?”

“Ah, yes,” Nithael smiled. “If I can. If they let me. Not to worry, I know now anything more would render them no longer human.”

The demon quirked a smile. “Be careful, though.”

Nithael turned to face him, his smile somehow no longer a perfect, beaming, angelic thing but something more nuanced, instead; something almost human. “You as well.”

“I meant with _them._ ” He hadn’t, not entirely.

“So did I,” the angel remarked, turning away again.“You’ll have an entire village to torment, I hear.”

Crowley faltered for a moment. They hadn’t told Nithael or Xaphan where exactly they were moving; they didn’t want their new home on anyone’s radar for now. Aziraphale had suggested they open up eventually, but had been more than willing to give Crowley time to decide, if he ever did. “Yeah,” he managed. “Though I am retired, y’know. Won’t be half the demon Xaphan’s about to be. You’re gonna wish you had me for an opponent.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll all be fine.” The angel paused. “I just hope we’ll get to enjoy London half as much as you have, and no doubt will enjoy your new paradise.”

And a paradise it was, or at least it was becoming.

The cottage had been all but finished. Its foundations has been restored by very befuddled workmen who’d had a rather easier job of it than expected. The rampaging tangle of wild roses had been battled valiantly and mostly trimmed back to the borders of the cottage garden, where its surrounding meadow met the woods. Masonry had been repaired, wood shaved and painted, and the snapped-off weathervane had been replaced by a winged serpent, flashing silvery in the sunlight.

For the inside, a combination of quaint wallpapers and modern paint choices had been picked out, to the barely veiled horror of all those willing to offer advice (and have it thrown to the wind by two beings who knew their own tastes better than anyone). Its wildly clashing furnishings had been brought in from both Soho and Mayfair residences, down to almost all of Crowley’s plants, and more of Aziraphale’s books than there had been, as the angel had managed to convince Crowley to stop by an Epfield book dealer on their way through town and picked up some new additions to commemorate the occasion. Luckily, there was more than enough space for all of it.

As Shadwell, Tracy, Anathema and Newt visited for the first time, they were welcomed into a cozy living room with comfortable maroon sofas and an abundance of tartan pillows, towering plant life and a great hearth, with free passage into a little vintage kitchen. French doors led into the garden, another set of doors into the library, and here the humans started raising eyebrows, because a) said library appeared no smaller than Aziraphale’s bookshop had been and b) it impossibly had windows on three sides despite supposedly being situated between the kitchen and the stairwell. This was also where Newt remarked upon the markedly high ceilings; in some ways, the building seemed to be bigger on the inside.

Aziraphale had winked. “The workpeople kept muttering the very same amongst themselves the longer they worked on the place,” he tittered. “We might shrink it down a tad later, but…”

“I’m regrowing Eden, he’s rebuilding Alexandria,” Crowley had quipped. “No, angel, we won’t shrink it down. The books need their space, and – coziness where coziness is due, but so do certain people.” He’d stretched his inky wings above his head, the longest primaries just barely brushing the ceiling, and let out a satisfied hum. The humans had understood; this place had been designed from the first to accommodate _all_ of Crowley and Aziraphale, in a way their former homes never had been.

As Crowley showed Newt and Shadwell around the garden, Aziraphale ended up in somewhat of a natural habitat having tea with Tracy and Anathema, recounting for the first time all that’d transpired in London with their successors. Tracy had tutted and gasped right on cue at every turn. Anathema had leaned in, somewhat conspiratorially. “You should’ve told us earlier,” she remarked. “Me at the very least. An exorcism would’ve been on the table, you know, free of charge. Still is.”

“Oh, there’s really no need, my dear,” Aziraphale had chuckled. “I do believe we’ve managed to successfully exorcise Heaven and Hell out of them, instead.”

“They were _very_ uncouth, though, showing up like that and giving you all that trouble.” Tracy shook her head in distaste. “You’ve been _most_ civil, dear.”

“Thank you, madam. And just between you and me, I’ve been rather less vocal about it than Crowley, but I have entertained the same thoughts. Angelic tendency to hold one’s tongue, I suppose.” He delicately sipped his tea. “Still, in earnest, it might’ve been nice if someone had been there for us to make sense of this world, back when we were new to it. It was my pleasure helping them set up shop, as I’m sure it has been Crowley’s.”

Later in the afternoon, more people came to visit the little impromptu housewarming. Word of the two gentlemen finally truly settling in the cottage just out of town quickly made the rounds in Epfield, and while some stopped by only briefly, others lingered; the baker and wine seller Aziraphale and Crowley had practically befriended already, as well as the owner of the lakeside restaurant, and a group of little gnarled old men with a lot of keen interest in the demon’s garden. As Crowley and Aziraphale sated the townsfolk’s curiosity with good-natured tours of the house, the library appeared to have miraculously shrunk to a more reasonable size, and Anathema could not restrain an amused smirk; this was truly _their_ home, from the roof tiles to the wine cellar.

Crowley and the oldtimers ended up doing rather a lot of gardening, in an increasingly competitive fashion, nobody wanting to be outdone in either technique or stamina[2]. Aziraphale beheld them with mirth, agreeing with Tracy on how glad they were to have no part in it, and privately glowing at the fact that humans now had a hand in their garden, too[3].

Eventually Crowley agreed to bringing out the apple tree he’d been meaning to give a proper spot outside, and accepting help in rooting it at the heard of their paradise. As the sunset gleamed on its serrated leaves, they seemed to spread out like wings, holding all the promise of the massive botanical wonder it would one day be now it’d taken its rightful place in the open air. Crowley grinned up at it, tired and dirty, further smudging himself as he wiped his forehead. His jacket lay in the grass a little way away, shucked-off and forgotten like shed skin.

“Come inside, darling,” Aziraphale cajoled his husband after they’d seen off their guests and he could nuzzle exactly as close as he wanted.

“Mm. Don’t wanna,” the demon mumbled, eyes half-closed as he glowed in the copper sunlight. “’S nice out here.”

“We can eat out here after you’ve cleaned yourself up. I’ve made a divine batch of tuna tataki whilst you were busy –”

“– you did _not_ –”

“– _practically_ without the use of miracles, and after that we can stay outside as long as you like.” When the demon still didn’t show any actual signs of budging, Aziraphale simply loosened his embrace with a slight smile. That finally did the trick, and minutes later Crowley found himself cleaning off the dirt and sweat practically without the use of miracles, too. Something about this place encouraged him to enjoy things the physical way. His angel’s gentle hands coming back into the mix might have helped, though.

After enjoying a quiet and exceptionally contented dinner, they ended up on a tartan blanket in their own garden with a fine vintage, marveling at the sense of peace. Later, there’d be time for bees and chickens and all sorts of ambitious plans. Right now, there was only this, only them.

“It’s just like Florence,” Crowley uttered, swirling his wine around, but wearing the slightest frown as if inwardly disagreeing with what he’d just said. Aziraphale smiled, placing his hand over his husband’s. “It’s unlike anything we’ve known so far.”

“Damn. You’re right.” The demon scooted closer, resting his body against Aziraphale’s chest, his head on the angel’s shoulder.

“I once dreamt of this, you know,” Aziraphale mentioned. “A while back. A garden is a question…”

“…what does paradise look like if one can create it for oneself?” Crowley looked back, smirking. “I know. I was there with you.”

“So you were.”

“And so I am,” the demon remarked, craning his head back in a question of his own. He didn’t have to go far before soft lips answered it.

As they went up to their – their own, their _shared_ – bedroom, a cool wind came in from the balcony, blowing the curtains into the room, and beckoning Crowley outside in turn. Aziraphale fussed for a moment, already halfway into their canopy bed, but then begrudgingly followed. He couldn’t keep it up for very long, grudge quickly turning to fondness.

The demon was staring up, eyes wide and dark and reflecting so many more stars than would’ve been visible from London. “I’m back up there,” he uttered, the most fragile smile on his face. “Not Up There, but… you know.”

“I do. I was there with you, too, after a fashion.” The angel quirked a smile. “It really is just as beautiful.”

Crowley turned, that impossible glowing expression still in place has he unfurled his inky wings. He was a yellow-eyed silhouetted against the dark, starry countryside for just a moment; then he wrapped them around Aziraphale like the warmest of blankets. “Thank you for running away with me.”

Aziraphale, for his part, managed an even starrier expression before matching Crowley’s gesture with his own downy wings, smiling as the demon nuzzled his cheek into the white feathers. “Let’s keep the doors open, at least for tonight,” he murmured. “These old wings of ours ought to keep out the chill, no?”

The demon didn’t speak, but simply tightened the hold of his wings, giving up on words as he very insistently tugged the angel back inside. The angel, for his part, didn’t hesitate before taking charge and scooping the demon into his arms instead. “Bridal carry over the treshold, dearest,” he laughed as Crowley sputtered and hissed in flustered protest. “Tradition is tradition –”

“Ngk – you gorgeous, insufferable – I’ll show you _tradition_ –”

Being, finally, in a position to make promises and keep them, that was exactly what he did.

“Welcome home,” the angel muttered into the crook of Crowley’s neck as they lay covered by a mess of white and black feathers just a bit later, so unapologetically themselves in a place that was so utterly theirs it was almost painful, but in a way a mild sunburn after a perfect summer’s day was painful, or cheeks tender from smiling too wide, a heart pounding away just a bit too fast. Crowley tightly screwed shut entirely golden eyes, afflicted by all three. “Mnn. Welcome home, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1. 20 Warwick St, Soho, look it up. The author was going for some inspiration in tattoo parlours close to Mayfair, and found something that was almost deemed too fitting to use; nevermind the fact the very talented artist running the place also creates art for the official merch store of Queen, as in _Queen._ [return to text]
> 
> 2 Too modern and Aziraphale wouldn’t know how to play. Anything in between the Renaissance and the 1950s and he’d play too well for even cheating to give Crowley any sort of honest edge. The angel could out-bridge any Islington housewife. [return to text]
> 
> 3 The demon found himself holding back somewhat, and mused to himself he might’ve done the same had he been human. Not even celestial beings would be wise to get in the way of competitive geriatrics one-upping eachother. [return to text]
> 
> 4 The angel had always so appreciated God giving Adam a hand in naming every creature, involving the fellow in Creation. This truly felt like the next best thing. [return to text]


	6. Setting Up Shop

They all met up in London two short months later, when the leaves started turning over Berkeley Square.

Crowley and Aziraphale had just taken an appraising tour through Soho and Mayfair, just shy of lunchtime. Both neighborhoods had seen considerable change under their new guardians, but not in the ways their former resident celestials might once have feared.

Soho was, in a word, verdant. As Crowley had been gardening in Epfield, Nithael seemed to have done and encouraged some of his own in London; the Square Gardens, Golden Square and St. Anne’s Churchyard had all been furnished with tastefully fitting shrubs and perennials, some still flowering under the autumn trees and drawing in flitting insects on gossamer wings, offering them nectar and pollen this late into the season. Aziraphale couldn’t help but approve, having taken up a beekeeping course a village over himself. “They are quite important, you know, and not just honeybees,” he was telling Crowley as they strolled back through the Churchyard. “And they need all the help they can get, too. It’s good to see Nithael is giving them a hand.”

Crowley had to chuckle at the angel’s gravity. “You never read up on them before now? It took you becoming a beekeeper to be tipped off on colony collapse disorder? [1]”

“Well,” Aziraphale huffed. “I simply assumed they knew what they were doing, dear boy, they seemed to be doing just fine. This only goes to illustrate one never stops learning.”

The demon smirked as he looked around, satisfied with Nithael’s gardening skills as opposed to his flower-picking ones. “Evidently.”

There were flourishing plants on practically every windowsill. Shops and pubs seemed more biologically and environmentally inclined in their choice of wares. Main streets sported flower baskets on their streetlights, and the various theaters each announced a new rendition of Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ ; no sleek modern reimagining, but one that’d have been right at home in the eighteenth century, baroque and ephemeral. Aziraphale was delighted. Crowley scoffed and gagged, but only for show. As the angel ribbed him about it, the demon let out a huff of his own Aziraphale knew to signify reluctant appreciation.

What Crowley could really appreciate turned out to be Xaphan’s Mayfair. The former hellfire demon had pulled out quite a few stops, and perhaps not even entirely on purpose; a demon of their tastes was bound to have a tangible impact on a neighbourhood as posh and esteemed as Crowley’s former neighbourhood. Crowley grinned at avant-garde clothing stores openly exhibiting ripped, torn and asymmetrical designs in their window displays, as well as high-end jewelers sporting uncut gems, spiky shapes and a suspicious amount of beetle imagery. “They probably think they’re borrowing from Egyptian styles again,” the demon remarked.

“Well, how do you know they’re not? The scarab was the carrier of the sun, yes? A burning sky if ever I’ve seen one.”

Crowley put away his grin. “I’d appreciate you not ruining Khepri for me with your astute observations, thanks very much.”

In Soho, people had been more forthcoming, polite and cheerful than before, but not alarmingly so. Aziraphale had keenly felt this was no longer _his_ Soho, but still a _good_ Soho. It was sustainable, not perfect, just as Nithael had promised.

In Mayfair, the people were exactly as snooty, distant and rushed as Crowley remembered, but the demon had still been elated to see them influenced by a demon they’d never have agreed to be influenced by. In his persona as Hell’s flash bastard, he’d been far too accomodating, now he really thought about it. Xaphan was doing a better job in Hell’s eyes, and perhaps even in those of the Serpent.

And now they strolled down Berkeley Street, right down to the illuminated archways of the Ritz Hotel and Restaurant – but then turned left, heading for the almost equally lavish establishment right next to it. The Wolseley was not a hotel, Aziraphale had always found their menu a tad gauche, and they’d grown too attached to the Ritz to really give its neighbour much thought over the years – but it was only fitting that London’s new resident angel and demon would choose this place to meet with their predecessors and one another now.

Nithael and Xaphan were already seated when Crowley and Aziraphale arrived. The demon slinkily slid into his seat as the angel primly took his own. “I see you favour our rival,” he drawled after the waiter had taken their orders. “How very fitting.”

Xaphan returned a grin slightly too sharp and predatory to be human. “We found our own favourite, we want to promote it a little. You really can’t blame us.”

“The menu is so lovely,” Nithael added. “Delicious, and in properly small portions. We’re still getting the hang of gross matter, you know.”

“Mhmm.” Crowley leant forward. “Your favorite is right next door to our old stomping ground, what a coincidence, eh? We see your influence,” he remarked, eyebrows suggestively rising over his glasses, “and we like it, but don’t overdo it, alright? You’re both being rather obvious.”

Nithael let out a dignified little snort, to the demon’s surprise. “Oh, as if your influences weren’t. Soho is full of little restaurants. Mayfair is polished and posh. I do so wonder why.”

“It’s only fair,” Xaphan agreed. “You moved, we’re only doing exactly what you did. Getting comfy, nothing more. We’re not _forcing_ anyone into anything; I don’t think the humans would let go of your contributions, even if we tried to make them.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. Aziraphale shrugged. “I do suppose there’s nothing we can say to that.”

Crowley let out a sigh of fond exasperation. “Godspeed then, you hellions.”

After this, their food arrived and Crowley had the privilege of chuckling with Nithael as Aziraphale and Xaphan discussed themselves into a stalemate over the pros and cons of the practice of flambé, and crêpes versus crème brûlée. As Xaphan had freshly discovered the latter and was prepared to defend their position, things got heated, but amicably so. Even Crowley had no reason to worry as his angel and the formerly hostile demon butted heads; the Bringer of the Burning Sky seemed too fond of sugary flambéed desserts to want to lay waste to the establishment producing them. _All according to plan,_ Crowley mused to himself. He pushed himself up from his comfortable slouch. “You seem to be adjusting well. You’ve had no trouble at all, so far?”

“A slight bit,” Nithael admitted. He ducked his head with a sudden grin as Xaphan abruptly shifted their attention from Aziraphale to Crowley, pounding the table. “That was nothing compared to me, feathers! Don’t you dare call that _trouble_ –”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale fretted. “What happened?”

Xaphan quieted, grumbling their answer in such a low voice even Crowley didn’t pick up up. “Come again?”

“They didn’t quite get the hang of traffic,” Nithael helpfully spoke up. “Stop signs, traffic lights…”

“Never known a red light to mean ‘stop’ before,” the beetle demon grouched.

“But, well,” Nithael gingerly patted their shoulder, “Downstairs seemed very lenient where it came to a new corporation, now didn’t they.”

“Yeah, they’d rather spare me one than send anyone else up,” Xaphan grumbled.

“If it’s any consolation, waiting for a green light doesn’t mean you’re safe, either,” Crowley remarked, trying not to grin. “London traffic’s a nightmare. Barely had to do anything to get it that way, by the by.” This, in turn, earned him an uptick of Xaphan’s mouth. “I knew I liked this city.”

“Nithael, you mentioned some trouble as well?” Aziraphale inquired.

“Oh, I was only… reprimanded.”

“Reprimanded…”

“…For getting a little carried away at the first viewing of the new _Midsummer Night’s Dream._ ” The Principality fidgeted. “It just seemed to me that fairies ought to fly, you see.” His fidgeting intensified. “My superiors… took it worse than the humans. I think the audience saw it as an effective publicity stunt.”

“They’re a lovely bunch that way,” said Crowley as Aziraphale stifled his chuckles and offered his fellow angel his sympathies. “Hard to surprise, easily surprising us.”

Both Nithael and Xaphan wholeheartedly agreed with this, both their faces lighting up as they regaled the couple with tales of their exploits so far. Nithael told them how he’d taken people’s struggling plants and offered help on how to better care for them if they were receptive, or given them kinds better suited to them if they weren’t. Gradually, and only if they _were_ receptive, he’d also helped people see their own lives in a new light; not illuminating them from the inside with a Heavenly glow, smoothing out the creases for them as he might’ve done before, but simply helping them help themselves. Often, he’d sealed these conversations and mental turnarounds with the gift of a plant for emphasis. Aziraphale had beamed, slightly unnerved at Nithael’s conviction but ultimately proud. Crowley and Xaphan had gagged, although Crowley was no longer good enough at acting to stop at least Aziraphale from seeing his pride, too.

Xaphan told them of their awe for humanity’s reckless abandon in the face of their own fragility and impermanence. They’d hung around bars and clubs for a while now, but had only recently come to really appreciate how far humans were willing to go for a bit of fun. They spread their demonic influence from the Wildfire Collective, by occasionally inking a design their client would come to regret, or an outright demonic sigil – although not every time, or too often, as they’d of course go out of business that way[2]. Their demonic aura actually seemed to be a draw for certain customers, and those not lured in that way were often captured by Xaphan’s little canine friend. Teeth had taken up lounging around just outside the parlour’s door, being especially cute and pettable, and her master couldn’t possibly be more proud. At night, the small dog had taken to leading around a growing pack of alley mutts around Mayfair, to Xaphan’s even greater delight and Crowley’s choking on his drink in approval.

“So you properly took over from Sarah?” Aziraphale inquired, patting his husband on the back as he worked through his splutters. “The parlour’s fully yours?”

“Yeah,” Xaphan beamed. “She inked me herself to celebrate. I picked… well.” They rolled up their sleeve, showing off a long, sprawling design wrapping around their lower arm. Crowley narrowed his eyes first. “ _Tephros._ ” He remembered it all too well. The Ashmaker, the sigil they’d attempted to burn into Mayfair during their first visit to London one New Year’s eve, by incinerating entire buildings in pillars of hellfire to mark the sigil’s points and angles.

“She’s a mixed memory, I know, for all of us,” Xaphan remarked with a crooked grin. “But the old girl’s failure did get me stationed here permanently and that’s… not at all a bad thing, so it seemed like the thing to go with.”

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale spoke warmly. “Welcome to London, both of you. We can rest easy with you here.”

“Will you ever show us where you settled down?” Nithael ventured. The table quieted; this was a sensitive subject, still. The cottage was somewhat of a sacred place; if not consecrated, then certainly hallowed ground to Aziraphale and Crowley both, neither of them keen to share it with their former Head Offices in any way.

“…One day,” Crowley then promised, to everyone’s surprise. “But give us time, yeah?”

“Time, that we have no shortage of,” Xaphan chuckled.

“Take all the time you need,” Nithael smiled. “It’s the least we can give you as thanks.”

As the afternoon ended and their successors walked them back to the Bentley, Aziraphale was overcome with a bittersweet mixture of happiness and nostalgia, only intensifying as Crowley put the car into gear and the other angel and demon disappeared behind the first street corner. “This is really it, then,” the angel uttered. “The shop, the flat, the Ritz, St. James’… all of it. London’s theirs, well and good. Everything just keeps on changing…”

Crowley took his hand and raised it to his lips, without taking his eyes off the road. Aziraphale knew both to be gestures of comfort aimed straight at him. “We’re going home, angel. And not _everything’s_ changing, y’know. You’ve still got the same dashing old serpent by your side.”

A smile like a sunrise broke through on the angel’s face. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, my dear.”

As they say, Heaven is a place on Earth.

This must be true to some extent, seeing as Earth’s resident quartet of celestial beings now had everything they could want, whereas those still actually Up There were markedly less than happy.

The Archangels were meeting for the first time in a good while. At long last, order had been more or less restored to the Heavenly Host, and Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon and the Metatron could afford to briefly step away from their war-deprived subordinates – but only just.

“They rankle at every task they’re given,” Michael spoke, not complaining but merely reporting, scarcely an ounce of emotion to her voice. “Every memo they’re sent.”

“It was bad enough when we had to get them down from their war footing,” Sandalphon remarked, upper lip curling in distaste. “But at least then there was the traitors’ trial to look forward to. And now you’re saying there’s _still_ no proper explanation as to how it was botched?”

“Speculation still runs rampant through the Spheres, but that’s all it is,” Uriel stated calmly, standing ramrod straight. “We will need to put a rest to all the rumours to restore true peace.”

The Metatron’s expression was distasteful thunder. “Some still call for Aziraphale’s discorporation and imprisonment,” his overpowering Voice echoed through the limitless chamber. “Luckily, there are more that see defiling Heaven with his presence would be a worse punishment for us than it could ever be for him.”

All eyes turned to the one Archangel yet to speak, waiting respectfully. Gabriel’s hands were folded behind his back, fingers tightly clasped, trembling only to the highly trained eye. “My colleagues,” he managed, his voice coloured just a touch too vividly by his forced cheer. “The Principality Nithael has, as of recently, provided us with an explanation for the botched trial. Unfortunately, it’s worse than useless.”

He shared with them the discovery he’d pushed Nithael so hard to uncover, and shuddered once again at the idea of an angel and demon meeting and entwining on the ethereal level – it was profane, even for Aziraphale, sullying everything the Almighty had given him. He was almost relieved to see the others suffering the same reaction, Uriel and Sandalphon’s forms even wavering in the eternal white light as they clasped hands to their mouths. Michael seemed frozen, lost for words. The Metatron was stammering. It took them all a moment to recompose themselves, although not too long – perfect composure was their natural state, after all.

“Of course, it’s worse than just… that.” Uriel gestured, expressing the remainders of their distaste. “Even if this _would_ render an angel immune to hellfire, it will not grant Heaven any any advantages in the upcoming War. The corresponding demon would be immune to holy water afterwards, as well.”

“On top of that, it seems like Nithael wasn’t the only one to gain this vital intelligence,” Michael stated. “Hell’s new agent has uncovered the same.”

None of the angels commented on how anybody would know this. Naturally, backchannels didn’t exist, but they’d still been more active than ever since the botched trials.

None of this fully explained Gabriel’s pearly white knuckles, however.

“Still, we must look on the bright side,” Michael started. “This is the most ideal situation, with the four of them on Earth and not getting in anyone’s way. Are we in agreement on this?”

“Certainly,” Gabriel joined the others in their affirmation. “We can be relieved all of this is behind us, and all cases of worldly corruption are all safely contained on Earth, where they belong.” The Archangel forced another smile, overly wide, overly bright. “Thank you all for joining me. May the Almighty be with you.”

“And you, Gabriel,” they each nodded before seeing themselves out. Only the Metatron lingered. “Something yet bothers you, Gabriel.” It wasn’t a question of concern, merely an observation of an irregularity that ought not to be there.

The Archangel had already half-turned away, but now turned back again, wearing a wide, sunny grin. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Gabriel.”

The Archangel’s expression froze. Then it shifted, losing all cheer and leaving only a clenched jaw. There was a sudden rage in his violet eyes. “I just… I don’t understand,” he most definitely didn’t gnash, because anything less than perfect civility was beneath him.

“Don’t understand what, Gabriel?” the Metatron asked coolly. And oh, that was what did it. These floodgates had been straining for far too long already. The Archangel broke, flinging out his arms and pacing towards his colleague, letting it all out.

“Why was Aziraphale right in the eyes of God where I wasn’t? Why didn’t he _Fall?_ I _know_ I wasn’t in the wrong, I gave everything for the Great Plan. We all did. Surely we did everything right all this time –”

“Calm yourself, Gabriel,” the Metatron intoned, breaking through his increasingly agitated rant. “The Principality and the demon are of no consequence. They have no bearing on the nature of the Plan, or indeed the nature and workings of the universe. They ought not have such bearing on your state of mind. You are the Right Hand of God.”

 _Am I? Was I ever?_ Gabriel exhaled hard, forcibly composing himself. “…Of course,” he stated, once again projecting utter confidence. Doubt was beneath him. It always had been.

The Metatron gave a nod, leaving Gabriel to his devices as the others had. After a moment’s hesitation, the Archangel moved through the halls of Heaven to his own office, settling at his desk, giving another token hesitation, then digging up an oily black candle and lighting it with guilt-quick motions. The smoky flame seemed just as out of place in the pristine chamber as the candle itself.

“Yezzz?” came a voice, biting and impatient. The flame gave it an unclear crackle, but the buzz was unmistakable. “Make it quick, the Dark Council will be back on my cazzze in five –”

“I just informed the rest of them,” Gabriel spoke, quickly. “I suppose they took it better than your side.” He couldn’t keep the hint of smugness out of his voice if he’d cared to try.

“Oh, give it a rezzt, will you.” Lord Beelzebub sounded rather irritable, and the Archangel permitted himself a small smile of schadenfreude; here at least was someone as affected by the whole debacle as he was. “Yezzz, we’ll both keep our supplies of holy water and hellfire at the ready in cazzze either side needs it –”

“– there are no supplies, Beelzebub,” Gabriel corrected.

“– of courzzze. But thizzz _might_ be the lazzzt of it.” Beelzebub’s buzzing intensified with the emphasis of it, the utter want. Clearly, ze ached to put it behind zirself as soon as possible, and he couldn’t blame zir – it must’ve been rather harder to get a bunch of demons who’d borne direct witness to Crowley’s trial to get back in line than it’d been angels who, by their very nature, weren’t inclined to rebel with much more than passive aggression. All the _really_ aggressive ones had been thoroughly weeded out, long Before. “Yes,” he replied thoughtfully. “Maybe any amount of field agents would bring back the same news. Maybe matters couldn’t have gone any differently.”

“Take a rezzzt, wank-wings. They’re not bloody worth it.”

And Gabriel nodded, and blew out the candle, and found himself utterly unable to give anything any sort of rest at all.

For a moment, the dark flame in his chest flared so high and so hotly he thought it a miracle _he_ hadn’t Fallen, either. Then again, miracles were what they did.

And here, at the end of all things, were two beings who had very successfully put everything squarely behind themselves.

Picture an overcast autumn night, and picture the house, gentle rain pattering onto its slanted roof.

Picture quiet rooms only disturbed by the sound of that rain, rooms already impossibly well-lived in. Perhaps it’s the fact that every single object and piece of furniture is so well-loved. Perhaps it’s something more, something slightly out of this world seeping into every inch of it all, into the very air – but it’s mostly love, really.

Picture tall ceilings, paneled walls, quaint little tables boasting lavish plants in sleek and streamlined pots. Picture two radically different styles that somehow manage not to clash but fully embrace one another.

Picture the library, improbably large and complicated for just one room in a modest cottage. Picture, on one of very few unoccupied bits of wall, the little glass frame, and the singed scrap of paper it holds.

_5004\. When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre._

Now, picture the firelight flickering out from underneath the library’s door, and the quiet conversation, the laughter.

What they speak of, rib eachother with and chuckle about doesn’t quite matter now. When all is said and all is done, it’s simply the sound of a long exhalation, a long letting go of a lot of tension they didn’t quite know they were holding. Here, at the end of a busy day in the village that’d welcomed them for what they really were, not what others had told them to be; after having just escaped the rain, after a spot of self-indulgent cooking[3]; here, warmed and lit by a smoldering hearth fire that has nothing to do with either holy blades or columns of hellfire; here, with an angel comfortable enough to undo his bowtie with the hand not holding his wine glass, and a demon so comfortable he’d practically melted into his serpent form all over said angel.

They were safe and happy, and in the library just a door away hung the only scrap of truth that held the secret to it all, the two of them the only ones privy to it.

Aziraphale leant forward to set down his glass, momentarily disturbing the demon draped over him. Crowley snuggled back in as soon as Aziraphale gave him the chance. The angel fell silent for a moment, suddenly aglow – both with the obvious, divine light he was wont to let slip in private, and a more intimate inner light Crowley had possibly grown even better at noticing. The demon smiled, impossibly fond. “What is it, angel?”

“It’s just… this place has such a sense of timelessness. It feels as though we’ve already lived here for centuries.” Aziraphale closed his eyes with a comfortable sigh, smiling, so peaceful and so beautiful Crowley couldn’t help but follow.

“We can grow old here, as a matter of speaking,” the demon chuckled. “This could be the rest of our lives, angel. Or until it starts to bore us, of course.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Have you ever known comfort to bore me, dearest?” His eyes were still closed, but he didn’t need to see Crowley’s reaction to know.

“Oh, you’re never gonna wanna leave, are you. What have I gotten myself into.”

“Hush, you love it.”

“Hmm.” Crowley smirked, giving up his serpentine anatomy – without shifting an inch, of course – in order to wrap actual arms around his angel. “Yes I do. I really, really do. I’d be happy to never move again, in fact.”

“Oh, we can’t have that,” Aziraphale smiled, gently attempting to free his arms and failing. “I can’t reach my book, and it was just getting ever so exciting.”

“Not now, angel. This snake is daring to get comfy, don’t ruin it.”

Aziraphale managed to free a hand, and smoothed it over Crowley’s hair. “I shan’t, darling.” He leant back, thinking for a moment. “You know…”

“Hrrm.” Crowley’s eyes were closed, and he was clearly halfway off to sleep, but he’d never nod off while there was still something his angel had to get off his chest.

“…Before we moved, I said I wanted to make a connection with people, not just move among faceless masses like in London. I suppose we both already did so back with Nithael and Xaphan, though.” The angel toyed with the demon’s flaming locks. Now Crowley was growing them out, they grew ever more irresistible. “And I recall saying I rather wanted things to change – and I can’t think of a greater change than the one we encouraged in those two. Or… me actually having hope for Heaven, seeing what happened.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too much,” Crowley cautioned, opening his eyes to golden slits. “We still based it on the same old lie we fed Head Office. Full truth’s still a secret, and our enemies are still just as immortal as we are.” Aziraphale felt him tensing up slightly, and felt guilty he had managed to ruin his husband’s comfort already. “Right you are, dear,” he muttered. “We’ve been running since the Beginning and technically we didn’t win the race at the End. But I have faith.” He slid his hand over Crowley’s, entwining their fingers in a soft bloom of golden light.

“Of course you do,” Crowley managed, overcome by its warmth, the utter trust of it.

“Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.” The angel smiled. “And I find I can certainly deal with this present moment, can’t you?”

Crowley only snuggled in closer. “If you can’t tell now…”

Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “Oh, hush.”

“I’ve Fallen and I can’t get up.”

“You’ve Fallen and I’ve caught you, dear.”

The demon smiled, wide as only a snake could. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Crowley, when still on active duty, had on occasion gladly seized the opportunity to tempt people into a profession and/or science where getting stung was a very common occupational hazard. Helping save the creatures doing the stinging was a happy byproduct, or at least that’s what he’d reported back. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Although they’d also pondered setting up a lasering studio a block away, and switching between the two parlours. Humanity’s fickleness was also a thing to behold, after all. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Self-indulgent for Crowley, who loved to glance back at Aziraphale’s focus on his book being thwarted by the delicious smells of his cooking, and self-indulgent for Aziraphale, who loved to enjoy said the results of said cooking and what his praise reduced the demon to. [return to text]
> 
> And so the penultimate story comes to a close. One more to go. Give me a sec, though - I think I take back that chapter-a-week thing, my current situation isn't really conducive to writing (long story but let's just say 2020 has many ways to make life miserable :P). I have to find my groove again, especially for this one. But as always, I am still working on it and I will see this through :D Thank you so much for being here!


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